


Twin Size Mattress

by HarveyDangerfield, Venn



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Abusive Parents, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Bottom Richie Tozier, Break Up, Budding Love, Consensual Underage Sex, Divorce, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Faked Suicide, Fingerfucking, First Love, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hospitalization, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot, Religious Guilt, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Suicide Attempt, Teen Romance, Underage Drinking, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 144,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venn/pseuds/Venn
Summary: With tears in my eyes, I begged you to stayYou said "Hey man, I love you, but no fucking way."-An exploration of young love and its pitfalls, the way it can fracture and then find itself whole again in the end.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 101
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> full transparency this DID start as just porn but it transformed into so much more over time. so buckle up for baby's first times, followed in GRATUITOUS detail by a whole shit load of angst before finally being bookended by more smut at the end HERE WE GO 👏👏👏
> 
> the title and lyric in the description are for the song "Twin Size Mattress" by the Front Bottoms

The first time Eddie hears the little tap on his window, he ignores it. He's to engrossed in the second book on his extra credit summer reading list, that he basically doesn't register it. Hidden under the covers with his flashlight pointed at the page so his mom doesn't see the light under the door, he turns the page and hears another little tap on the window. Again, he doesn't register it. 

Until he hears a much larger _crack_ , and whips the blankets off his head in a rush, panic climbing into his chest as he swings his flashlight around to point at the window. There's a small hairline crack in the glass that definitely wasn't there before. He swings his legs off the bed, his heart pounding in his chest as he slips his feet into his slippers, and pads over to the window, the tension climbing up his back until he finally reaches the glass and sees Richie standing two stories below in the dark grass, his hands full of rocks. Eddie breathes out an annoyed sigh, and unlocks the window, lifting it up by the base. 

"Richie," he hisses down to his friend. "It's one in the morning, what are you _doing?"_

"Saving you from your summer reading!" Richie replies, and grins as he does it, barely visible in the scarce light of the sidewalk. Just behind Eddie's house was a streetlight, but it did little more than throw Richie's face in harsh relief, light catching on his glasses and teeth-- the rest was obscured in shadow. 

If Eddie didn't know what Richie looked like, he might have been an imposing figure. As it was, the scrawny, mid-puberty stretch of boy was about as familiar as the back of his own hand.

Raising a hand bearing another rock, Richie jerks his hand, half-threatening to release it without actually doing so-- "Get down here before I really let you have it. You won't have any windows left!" It's a baseless threat. After all, it only really hurts them both if Eddie gets grounded or banned from their friend group again, stranded in the house that was so akin to a prison it made Richie sick to his stomach to leave him there. So it was fortunate that 'rescue' was the name of Richie's game, and not casual vandalism. 

"Come on!" Richie urges, daring not to raise his voice any more than a harsh stage-whisper.

"Shh-- shut _up_ ," Eddie looks back over his shoulder, gripping the window sill and holding his breath, waiting to see a light flick on from under the door to the hallway-- but none comes. His mother doesn't wake up, and he lets out a soft breath of relief, leaning back out the window to hiss down at the other boy, "If my mom finds out I snuck out in the middle of the night she'll fucking _kill me_ \-- is that what you want? Do you want me to me _dead_ Richie because that's what'll happen if she finds out I left! She barely tolerates me leaving in the _daytime_ you think she won't handcuff me to the bed again if she finds out I snuck out?"

That makes Richie actually lean back, and while Eddie can't quite see the look on his face, the pause should be enough to speak volumes: " _Again?"_ he repeats, incredulously, and it's a bit too loud-- so he cuts it off abruptly, shaking his head, "I don't wanna hear about what weird, kinky crap you get up to with your mom, dude!" He drops his arm full of rocks, pushing those massively thick glasses of his back up the bridge of his nose and taking another step closer to the house, craning his head up at Eddie. Whether it was to get a better look at him or to allow Richie to speak quieter, it was hard to say. 

"Your mom doesn't wake up until 9am on Saturdays! It's one now, you'll be back before sunrise! Come on!" Unfortunately for Eddie, it doesn't look like Richie is going anywhere.

Eddie looks back over his shoulder again, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He really _does_ want to go out with Richie... he doesn't even know where Richie plans on taking him, but he knows he wants to go there just because Richie is the one who wants to take him. They don't get to spend a lot of time just the two of them, Mike or Ben or Bill almost always come along... and there's something really romantic about getting pebbles thrown at his window in the middle of the night, like a girl in a movie. It makes his chest feel funny. 

"Okay, shit. Just give me like five minutes, fuck," he hisses, and closes the window again. 

He moves quickly, stuffing a couple pillows in his bed to make it look like he's still under the covers, and he changes out of his sleep shorts into a pair of jeans and socks, slipping into his sneakers and hooking his fanny pack around his hips. He latches his watch around his wrist and double-checks it with the clock on the wall just to make sure it's correct, and then finally makes the bold decision to lock his bedroom door from the inside. His mom hates it when he locks the door, but it might buy him a few crucial moments if it came down to the wire. He'd rather his mom be angry about a locked door than him sneaking out. 

Finally he comes back to the window to find Richie cleaning his glasses on his shirt, and he opens it again, throwing a leg out over the sill. It's not the first time he's used the drain pipe to shimmy down the side of his house, and knowing Richie, it won't be the last. He finally drops down to the grass, and doesn't even wobble on the dismount. Nice. 

"Okay, where are we going?" he asks, zipping his waist pack shut with all his medication inside, Just In Case.

Richie has to admit, he watches Eddie climb down the drain pipe with more rapt attention than is maybe platonically appropriate for his lifetime friend-- but what is that if not tradition, by this point? And, according to tradition, Richie allows himself to greedily devour his smaller friend with his eyes until he catches himself doing it, then pulls back all at once, looking down and grabbing his glasses off of his face, any excuse to look busy while Eddie was getting far too close for comfort. He takes a step back to give Eddie room to land. 

And not because if he hadn't, Eddie's ass would have passed right by his face, and he's not a boy of willpower.

Shoving his glasses onto his nose, Richie only looks up after he hears the telltale clapping of his friends hands dusting himself off, and he figures it's safe to peek, "I heard a bunch of seniors are having a party at the reservoir," Richie says excitedly as he nudges Eddie to start walking, ignoring the way his entire arm tingles where they touch.

"Fuck partying with those assholes, but they'll probably get so wasted we can grab a couple beers when they're not looking," Richie grins down at Eddie, practically glowing as they turn down the street, "We can swing by my house and grab my bike if you want, but you'll have to ride my handlebars without bitching. Think you can do that?" Richie jeers. He hasn't stopped grinning since Eddie had joined him in freedom. He's not sure if he wanted to.

"You _know_ how I feel about the structural integrity of riding on handlebars," Eddie admonishes bitterly. "And-- _and_ underage drinking, dude. My mom has a nose like a bloodhound, if I'm on the bus with someone who took a shot of liquor an hour ago she can smell it on me. Can't we do something that doesn't involve making stupid choices? It's pretty cliche of you to want to drink, you know, that's like basic math-- are you gonna cuff your jeans and pop your collar, too?"

"One beer! One! Just the one! You're not taking shots of whiskey!" Richie turns to walk backwards as they argue, gesturing broadly with his hands, "You've gotta lighten up, Eddie. You already snuck out. If she catches you, she's going to think you drank whether you went near it or not. If she doesn't, you'll have plenty of time to brush your teeth and pray to Jesus for forgiveness." 

Reaching forward, Richie actually grabs Eddie by the collar to pop it, grinning toothily as he does, stopping in his tracks to lean back and appreciate his work, "Wow, you do not pull that off."

"I could," Eddie argues, even as he smooths his collar back down, his heart slamming up into his mouth when Richie's hands come close to his neck. "If I styled it properly-- that's not the _point_. I don't even like beer, probably. Mom says it's gross and-- and can give you stomach cancer. Plus, what if Bowers' friends are there? You know they've gone double crazy with a side order of fries since he was locked up. I for one don't want to take a swim in the resevoir tonight, and you know that's where we'll end up if they're there--"

A noise of frustration bubbles from Richie's throat, and he groans, once again grabbing the smaller boy by the shoulders, hands warm and heavy and firm as he holds him in place. It's sheer willpower that has his hands staying in place and keeps the wobble out of his throat. "Eds, man, you got to trust me. It's not a popular kid party, it's a theatre kid party. They practically invited me. They were talking about it at the corner store while I was standing right there, one of them even said hi. Bowers' dogs aren't gonna be caught anywhere near a bunch of weird theatre types, they're probably just going to be talking about Dungeons and Dragons all night." 

Richie tilts his head as he catches Eddie's gaze, holding it as he leans forward, voice lowering an octave, "So quit being a pussy and come with me," he says seriously, then smiles and shoves Eddie away, turning on his heel and walking quickly away from him with long strides, leaving the smaller boy no other option but to play catch up-- and buying himself time to swallow the knot that had begun closing his entire fucking throat.

Eddie is a little dazed by the proximity, but he shakes himself off when Richie removes himself from his personal space and continues down the street. His hand flutters towards his fanny pack instinctively when he feels a tightness in his chest, ready to grab for his inhaler, but he realizes he's not breathing bad-- it's just a knot, the same one in Richie's chest right now. He finally reboots his brain and jogs a few paces to catch up. 

"Alright, o-- okay, we can go," he says. "But one beer, and that's it, alright? I want to be back by six, no ifs ands or buts. We can get your bike, I'll ride bitch. You really gotta get a pair of those spokes that go on the back wheel though, I hate sitting on your handlebars."

Richie jerks around when Eddie agrees, and with an accomplished whoop of laughter, he wraps one arm around his shoulders and pulls him in for a very brief, one-armed hug, strictly platonic in nature, "If you're so sick of riding bitch, you should buy 'em for me yourself. Christmas'll be here before you know it," He teases, and leads them through a backyard, cutting through the unfenced yards until they get to Richie's house, only a block away. 

Grabbing his bike from a mess of bushes it had clearly been hidden in, Richie stands it on its feet and straddles the seat, holding the bike still as he nods, "Okay, get on. Look, I even wrapped a sweatshirt around it so you wouldn't crack your nuts open." It'd only happened once, but Eddie hadn't let him forget it. He was determined for it not to happen, tonight.

"How considerate," Eddie says flatly. He would say he's getting too big for this, but he's barely grown four inches in the last three years. He keeps waiting for his growth spurt, he knows it has to happen at some point. Being the only kid in their class who hadn't yet cracked 5'5 has been an embarrassing look for him, especially since Richie won't seem to _stop_ growing, and is already approaching six feet tall, the bastard. 

He hops up onto the handlebars, gripping them tightly and bending his knees back to hook his feet primly over the neck of the bike, between Richie's knees and the base of the handlebars themselves. He hunches in to keep his center of gravity low, and makes only one wobbly noise of disquiet as Richie pushes off the curb and starts down the street. His heart is up in his throat again, his pulse pounding somewhere between his mouth and his brain, his ears roaring not just from the wind. Really, he could have grabbed his bike... it's not like he would have had to go through the noisy garage door, there's a door on the side... but for all his complaining, he likes the feeling of sitting on Richie's bike with him, like a-- is he really about to compare himself to a girl again? Why has Richie been making him feel like a _girl_ this past year or so? More importantly, why doesn't he hate it?

Richie doesn't say anything as he stands on his pedals to take off toward the reservoir. It was a bit of a ride, nothing for the kids who had spent their life maneuvering through their town on bikes, but normally it'd be a bit of a trek-- so it's plenty of time for Richie to savor this moment. He doesn't goad Eddie or tease him, doesn't do anything that might risk the serenity of their ride. The wind was a perfect excuse not to talk, the time of day even moreso, where prying neighbors would be all too quick to call the authorities on a couple of hoodlums out after dark: And that'd be just what Eddie needed, a police record. Richie was pretty sure Eddie's mom wouldn't even survive being told the news. She'd probably just die on the spot.

He can smell Eddie's shampoo from here, heavy and clean as his hair tickles Richie's nose, making him huff a quiet breath. The other boy was warm in his arms, delicate and so fucking _small_ ; it made a part of Richie flare up deep in his gut, some possessive little nook he wouldn't've even known existed were it not for the boy riding on his handlebars now.

But eventually about 10 minutes later, they make it to the grassy edge of the reservoir, and on the other side is the telltale glow of the fire on the ground, brighter than ever. One foot dropping to support their weight, Richie grins, "See? No blue thunderbird. Just some nerds and their toyotas," Richie gestures, dismounting his bike and half-whispering it in his ear, forgetting they didn't really have to worry about volume. "Can we please go score a beer now? Just one," He says dutifully, rolling his eyes.

"Just one," Eddie agrees, swatting at Richie's face when it draws so near to his ear that he feels his breath down his neck in a way that makes his stomach hurt. He'd done his own sweep of the parking lot, and upon deciding for himself that the coast was indeed clear, he trots after Richie like a duckling. 

He's _extremely_ out of his element here. Richie might be a nerd himself, but at least he's a nerd with charisma, unlike Eddie, who clams up and says something stupid under pressure. He's almost compelled to reach out and take Richie's hand as they wind down the dirt path to the little campsite area that the seniors are taking advantage of. There's enough of them that they probably won't notice a couple freshmen sneaking up to grab beers, especially since Richie's so tall he easily passes for a junior, at least. A senior, if he takes his glasses off so they don't magnify his eyes so much. Eddie on the other hand still looks like a fucking _middle schooler_ \-- so he sticks to Richie's shadow like glue.

It's lucky for Eddie then that Richie's focus really isn't on partying with upper-classmen. Eager to please he may be, but he had nothing if not leagues upon leagues of standards, many of which were already fulfilled by the people he surrounded himself with: Not least of all Eddie himself, not that the smaller boy even realized it. Richie parks his bike closer to the outlet of the path, not wanting to be teased for riding his bike instead of driving. With hands in his pockets, Richie leads them towards the group of quietly-lingering seniors, only offering vague, nondescript smiles at people until they make it to the cooler. 

Grabbing three bottles very quickly, Richie hisses for Eddie to go before following suit. True to form, the theatre kids were all already far drunker than they had any right to be, and they definitely didn't know or care about the two stranger boys sneaking off with their beer. Richie, for his part, doesn't actually breathe until they're on a hill overlooking the clearing, the reservoir behind them ad glittering in the moonlight. Richie breathes a heavy sigh of relief as he hands a bottle out to his friend, "See?" Richie says proudly, "Easy peasy. Not even an issue."

"I _saw_ you grab three bottles," Eddie says as he stands awkwardly in the grass beside Richie, at the edge of the water. "I hope you don't think you were slick because I saw you, I said one beer and you said one beer, so unless you plan on pouring that one out for the lake then you're a dirty liar." He takes the bottle, and just holds it between his two hands without opening it, gripping it like he's about to start squeezing.

"Who, me?" Richie asks, and actually has the audacity to flutter eye eyelashes at Eddie and nudge him forward with the butt of one of their ill-gotten bottles, "Come on, it isn't even for you. Relax," he chides, making sure to sit Eddie down and wait for him to get comfortable before following suit, his legs crossing beneath him just as a drunken, sloppy cheer raises up from the crowd beneath them. He didn't even know what they were celebrating. Vaguely, he wondered if they needed a reason. "Need me to open it for you?" Richie asks, glancing at the little bottle, only made bigger by Eddie's small hands.

"What? Oh. Yeah," Eddie doesn't bother acting tough, he once tried to open a root beer with this kind of bottle cap with his bare hand and sliced his palm open so bad his mom started crying about how they were going to have to amputate it at the wrist on the way to the hospital where he got a resounding three stitches. He'd rather not risk a repeat, so he just holds the bottle out to the bigger boy with his... bigger hands. Eddie stares a little bit too intently at Richie's knuckles, at the way they shift all prominent and knobby under his skin.

Grinning wolfishly, Richie sets his own bottle between his legs before tugging out his keys from his pocket. Settling the teeth just beneath the ridge of the cap, he twists and pops open the lid, holding it out to Eddie as the beer raises to a head, spilling over his fingers. He's considerate enough to hold the bottle away from the other boy, making sure not a drop touched his clothes, though plenty got on his own fingers. Licking them clean, he repeats the process with his own beer, until both are sizzling softly between them. 

"See? Isn't this better than being holed up in your room?" Richie asks with a pleased grin, basking in the moonlight, ignoring the warmth of Eddie at his side-- or trying, rather ineffectively. "Come oooooon," He goads, raising his bottle to clink against the other's, "Admit it."

Eddie ducks his head away, trying to swallow his smile. He doesn't want to admit Richie's right about _anything_ , he's always so smug about it... but there is something magical about sitting beside his best friend at the edge of a lake with the frogs croaking and the distant sounds of drunk acoustic guitar, laughter, and campfire crackles at their back. The moon is glittering on the glass-flat black lake, and it's not so deep into the night yet that the grass is wet. It's... pretty much perfect. 

And then he takes a sip of the beer and immediately recoils with a retching sound. "Ugh-- _no_ , that's _awful_ ," he laughs, wiping the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Dude, that's fucking _rank_ , it's like bread soda."

"Oh, shut up, it's not that bad--" Richie crows as he takes his own drink, and is entirely unable to hide the twist of a sneer that uglies his own face at the absolute atrocity of a flavor that hits him. It's like he licked a piece of cardboard. Grassy, wheaty cardboard. It tasted the way a haybale smelled, minus the usual fun and frolicking that came from... being near hay. Or whatever. It was bad, that was the point.

But Richie, proud as he was, absolutely wasn't about to give Eddie the satisfaction of being right about something. So he tips his head back and opens his throat, closing his eyes tightly as he begins to drink in deep, heavy pulls, pulling away with a wet gasp only when his eyes are watering and he thinks his bottle must be almost empty-- only to find it about half full, "See?" Richie asks, only sounding a little pained, "Great," He grimaces, licking his lips. He could already feel the effects, the warmth spreading from his throat to his chest and to his fingers, making his muscles feel like they're packed with cotton, "Your turn. Drink up, Eds," He urges, pushing the bottle back up like a mother with a baby.

"Alright-- _okay_ ," Eddie yanks the bottle away from Richie with a sigh. He pinches his nose and tips the bottle up, and not being able to smell it does help a little, but he only gets about three swallows in before he coughs, and chokes, and pulls his fingers away just in time for foam to come spilling out his nose. 

He gives a noise like a man dying as the fizz burns his nose, and he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to dab miserably at his face, sticking the bottle in the grass to clean himself off. His own eyes are watering, and he's laughing helplessly as he unclips his fanny pack so he can mop his face dry more effectively. In the process, he gives Richie a glance at his stomach, the first he's seen in quite a while, actually. 

It's well known among adolescent boys that there comes an age where it stops being normal to be naked around each other, and they pretty recently hit that age. Around fourteen or fifteen it stops being childhood antics, and starts being _gay_ , the dreaded word that gets bounced around like the worst insult in the year of jesus christ their lord and savior, 1992. It's been almost a year since the last time Richie got an organic glimpse at any part of Eddie's body underneath his clothes, and honestly not a lot has changed. He still has all those little moles on his stomach and hips, and he still doesn't have any hair on his tummy, unlike Richie who started sprouting a meager little treasure trail in the last half year or so. The one thing that does seem to have changed is that he finally grew out of his "baby fat" or perhaps grew into it-- he doesn't have as much of a little roll over his belt as he used to, either way.

Richie takes the hit of Eddie's stomach like a punch in his own gut, and for a second he wonders if he's dreaming. He'd blame the alcohol if he was smart, blame it for making him lazy and stupid, warm in an idiotic, senseless way; The same kind of senseless that has Richie staring for far too long at that expanse of skin, dark eyes wide and horribly, horribly obvious, his only saving grace the distress of Eddie's foul attempt at drinking. While Eddie coughs and chokes on his own breath, Richie finds it hard to catch his. He actually opens his mouth like he's going to say something, his tongue dragging across his lip, instead. He wants nothing more than to touch that expanse of stomach, to put his face against it, to bury his nose into the pale, delicate bulge over the waistband of his jeans...

And all at once he's torn from his reverie, reminded where they are, who they are, what they are, torn away from it by Eddie's gasping breath that has heat pooling in his chest like magma. He needs to say something. It's weird he hasn't said anything. Richie dragged Eddie all this way to get him to drink and now he did and Richie's just staring at him like a goddamn fucking _faggot_ and _holy shit_ , Richie, just say fucking _anything at all_ \--

"Missed your mouth," he supplies unhelpfully, and isn't proud of the way his voice cracks when he says it, like Richie was the one who had just choked on the head of a beer and was now struggling to regain his breath. Quickly, Richie brings his bottle back to his mouth, taking a too-deep pull and ignoring the way the carbonation burns his eyes, "You probably shouldn't wear that shirt home or your mom'll kill you. She'll smell the beer on it." 

Smooth.

"Y-- yeah, _thanks_ Einstein. You know, I didn't think to pack a change of clothes, idiot? If you'd told me you were gonna make me choke I would have brought a-- a sweater, at least," Eddie says, somewhat grouchy as he drops the shirt back down to cover his stomach, depriving Richie of the view. "Now I'm gonna have to wash my shirt in the bathroom sink like a prairie woman."

Defiantly, he picks up the beer again and takes another few mouthfuls, his nose wrinkling as he does it. He still coughs when he pulls the bottle away, but at least he's not actively upchucking foam through his nose anymore. He belches, a sticky and foamy noise in his throat that he gags on slightly, and bends over to spit the foam in the grass-- so much for not upchucking. 

"Augh, beer _sucks_ , my mom was right-- why do people drink this stuff?" he complains, spitting again in the grass, just for good measure. Then when he tries to sit back up, he feels the answer before Richie has to say it. Standing at under five and a half feet tall and less than 110 pounds, drinking most of a beer that's 8% alcohol according to the label on a completely empty stomach, his body metabolizes it quickly, and he feels a light-headed spin to the world as he sits back up with a slightly dazed, "Whoa."

"Yeah," Richie agrees, not even entirely sure what he was agreeing with, still having to actively fight his eyes from looking down and trying to imagine that sliver of stomach again. He could see the effect it had on his friend, could see how hard it hit Eddie, and how fast-- hell, even Richie was feeling it, and he wasn't nearly as small as Eddie, and he knew for a fact he ate more. Knowing Ed, he was living off of a handful of vegetables and one _immaculately_ portioned piece of unseasoned chicken from 6 hours ago. Not the best drinking food.

Glancing over his shoulder, Richie looks at the water, then back at Eddie, "You could try rinsing it in the lake," Richie's talking about Eddie's shirt again. Of course he's talking about Eddie's shirt again. He can't stop thinking about Eddie's goddamn shirt, "If you don't let it dry all the way you can probably get the smell out, and it'll be dry before we even leave the park."

It sounds like a smart enough idea to Richie, but Richie's also being piloted by whatever warm, idiot pilot had co-opted his brain thanks to the beer. Tipping the bottle back to distract himself, he finishes it with a furrowed-brow look into it, "Damn, this shit really goes down once you get going," He mutters, sounding a little bit in awe, mostly talking to himself.

It's kind of a cold night, and there's the threat of fever if he gets too chilled... but he'd prefer his mother coddling him over a fever to losing her mind over the smell of beer, so he relents to Richie's for-once brilliant idea, and pulls his shirt entirely off over his head, unaware of the way his friend is staring at him as he does it. 

He really hasn't changed much over the last couple of years. He barely even has hair in his pits yet, he's still waiting to get hit by the puberty truck. At least he's not alone, Ben also hasn't been on the train to grownupsville alongside Mike, Richie and Bill, which makes Eddie feel a little less alone about his bare chest and skinny arms. He leans out over the water and dunks his shirt into it, wringing it out a few times and beating it against a rock just to get any of the residual stink off, and then lays it out in the grass before sitting back on his hands with a sigh. 

"So which books are you gonna read from the summer reading list?" he asks, like a dork.

"Huh?" Richie says stupidly after a long minute, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he sets the beer aside. He'd watched the sloping line of Eddie's back for far too long, had marveled at the way his shoulders moved and moonlight bathed him in blue-white light. How gay was he, to notice the goddamn _lighting?_

It all comes back to him at once. Reading list. School. Rapidly approaching. Schoolwork. Eddie. Reading. Right. Clearing his throat loudly, Richie tugs his glasses off the bridge of his nose, beginning the meticulous task of cleaning them on his shirt for no other reason than he was pretty sure his hands were shaking-- and it at least gave him something to distract himself with, "Oh, right, reading. I'm pretty sure you're the only one actually doing that, genius. If I read the list itself the teachers'll be lucky," Who needed to start the year with extra credit, anyway? Especially when there was so much Summer left to experience, "Was that really what you were doing when I grabbed you? I was kidding." 

This, at least, is easier to talk about than whatever his brain wanted him to talk about, which was less talking and more of... his mouth on Eddie's stomach.

"Well, yeah," Eddie chuckles. "Why else would I be awake at one in the morning, genius," he ribs right back, reaching out to elbow Richie in the arm. In doing so, he unseats his glasses from his trembling hands, and quickly lurches forward to catch them before they can tumble out of his fingers and into the lake. In the process, his hands tangle around Richie's in a way that makes his throat feel like it's closing almost as keenly as if he'd eaten a fucking cashew. 

"Sorry," he mutters, pulling his hands away quickly, and he clears his throat, his voice cracking on the next word. "Anyway, I started reading, uhh-- l-- lord of the flies. It's okay. I'm a few chapters in, I wanted to try children of the corn next, that one's supposed to be super scary."

"How can books even be scary?" Richie argues, desperate to keep the conversation going, desperate for anything to distract him from the incessant hammering in his ears that had only grown to swell with Eddie's proximity, with their hands laced together like lovers-- "I--- I mean, it's just paper, right? Your imagination? Do you even have one of those?" Richie says, quickly pushing his glasses back on his nose, so hard they dig into the corners of his eyes a little unpleasantly. Fine by him, it gave him something to focus on that wasn't Eddie's lips.

Although now that he was paying attention, Richie became all too aware of Eddie's mouth, the way his throat bobbed as he spoke and swallowed like he had something to be nervous about. As if he was the one chewing on feelings for his best friend. Not that Richie was doing that. Because that'd be gay. And Richie was...

His eyes wandered back to Eddie's chest, his stomach. Richie wondered if his moles were sensitive. "Did you finish your beer?" Richie asks, voice just slightly too loud for the occasion as he reaches between them to grab the forbidden Third Beer, "We can split this one, if you want. But you only have to drink that one, I promised." Or they could share. No big deal there.

Eddie _had_ finished, yes. And Richie had said one beer, yes. But Eddie is feeling a little bit high from the way Richie's eyes dipped down to his chest (probably just an accident) and the prospect of kissing through the neck of a bottle is too enticing to pass up. Plus, he knows that Richie will think he's cool if he breaks his own rule and takes another drink... so he shrugs. 

"Fuck it," he says. "Let's split it."

"'Atta boy, Eddie!" Richie crows, still a little loud as he fishes his keys out of his pocket again, a little clumsy, a lot excited. He manages to get the teeth under the cap despite the trembling in his fingers, manages to twist and pop the bottle open, and this time is met with minimal overflow before Richie licks his key clean and holds the bottle out to Eddie, gaze at least earnest, even if the hunger in his gut was less than innocent, "Ladies first," Richie says as he hands Eddie the bottle, ignoring the way he dips a little closer as he does, as if sharing a beer required physical closeness.

"Shut up man," Eddie says, and takes the bottle anyway. He still hates the taste, but at least he's getting used to it, and the fearless kind of giddiness that floats up to the top of his head is incentive enough for him to take a couple deep swallows before handing it back. He gets why people drink now, he feels calmer than he has in a long time, especially calmer than he thinks he's ever been alone with Richie. 

Sometimes he thinks about why being alone with Richie makes him feel like this. He's not a moron, he knows what gay is, but he doesn't think that's what he is, considering he's felt the same weird flutters in his stomach at some of the girls in school... and it's not like he gets a boner in the locker room even when he sees other boys completely naked in or coming out of the showers. He only feels this way about Richie. It's his turn to stare, jealous at the way Richie's adam's apple bobs. He hasn't really gotten a prominent one yet himself... is that what it is? Is he _jealous_ of the way Richie's shoulders have gotten so broad and his voice deepened before his? Jealous of those knobby hands and long legs? 

The beer in his brain has him a little slow on the uptake, so when Richie looks back at him, Eddie's still giving him that dazed, half-lidded expression of deep thought and contemplation for a couple seconds before he blinks and shakes his head to hard reset it, and reaches out to take the bottle again, still feeling warm in his stomach over the way Richie called him boy.

Richie holds onto the bottle a little longer than necessary, just to feel Eddie's fingers curl around his own. It's brief, fleeting and unintentional, Eddie's hand greedily going in for seconds before Richie had properly relinquished his first... but it was enough. Enough of a touch to set Richie's brain into overdrive, enough of a touch to remind Richie just how dangerous it was to be on this hill, at this time of night, with Eddie.... shirtless. Shirtless and it had been _his_ idea. Jesus fucking Christ, how had he not been called out yet? How had Eddie not strung him up by his goddamn nipples and called the firing squad?

Their hands linger together for a second too long, just long enough for Richie to meet Eddie's eyes and mutter, "Careful, Eds. This stuff makes you stupid." And then he lets go, letting Eddie have the bottle again and dragging his tongue over his lip to collect the remnants from his own beer, childishly hoping he'll be able to taste Eddie's lips on his own. Richie can't help but wonder if he already had.

"Yeah, I can... feel that," Eddie says, stifling the rising heat in his throat with another gulp of beer, washing down what feels like is about to be a breath of pure fire, given the pressure building in his chest. He exhales through his nose, holding a mouthful behind his teeth for a few seconds longer than necessary as his eyes go unfocused at Richie again, hazily taking in his features like he's trying to puzzle over a combination lock. 

It's not just his shoulders that broadened, but his jaw, too. It's gotten all square at the corners, and his cheekbones have gone sharp and hollow. He grew his hair out so it just brushes his shoulders in the back, the black curls thick and loose around his ears, unlike the safe cropped cut he's been rocking courtesy of his mother's scissors since he was about six years old. He doesn't think jealousy is the feeling making him want to sink his fingers into those curls. By all accounts, Richie has gotten _pretty_. Like girl-pretty. With his full lips and arched eyebrows and the way his glasses magnify every little black eyelashes, Eddie finds himself staring all over again. 

Maybe that's why he feels this way for Richie but no other boys? Maybe it's because he's pretty. God, he is pretty...

The weight of Eddie's stare is impossible to ignore. Maybe because Richie was returning it with gusto. Maybe it was because, the longer they sat here in the grass, under the stars, more and more of that warm cotton was beginning to cloud his brain and impair his judgement; Maybe it was just a matter of time. This wouldn't be the first time Richie had stared at Eddie without the boy realizing it, it would definitely not be the last.... but this was the first time Richie could feel it requited, warm and intense, boring a hole into the side of his head. It was enough to make him blush, almost enough to make him call the whole thing off and go home.

But he doesn't. Of fucking course he doesn't. Richie wouldn't be Richie if he called the whole thing off, not when he was so close to something he could taste it. What that something was, even he didn't know yet. 

Richie's hand finds Eddie's around the bottle, and he leans in as he pulls it from his fingers again, tipping it back and finishing it off, his throat bobbing as he does. "Weird, right?" Richie gasps as he pulls away, inspecting the now-empty thing with something akin to awe. They'd killed that bottle too fast. He could feel his head growing dumber. 

"Makes you feel like you can do anything," Richie admits, and this time doesn't bother trying to hide the way his eyes linger on Eddie's mouth, or his hand comes down over Eddie's, buried in the grass.

Eddie doesn't so much as take that as an invitation, even though looking back on it, it definitely was. It's not that he was brilliantly picking up the signs that Richie was putting down-- he doesn't even think about it that hard. He just feels Richie's hand on his, and the sound of his voice cuts out into a hazy static in his ears that compliments the heavy buzzing in his stomach. He doesn't think about consequences, honestly he doesn't think _at all_ , half convinced it's a daydream entirely when he leans forward to press his lips clumsily to Richie's. 

He's never kissed _anyone_ before. he doesn't know for sure if Richie has, either. He certainly brags enough like he has, but Eddie's never seen him kiss a girl. In his head, he imagines he hasn't, he pretends that this is Richie's first kiss, too.

Eddie might have taken the first step, but Richie takes the plunge, their lips only so gently and tentatively pressed together for a millisecond before Richie closes the space between them and makes it a kiss. His hand curls around's Eddie's, the opposite raises to cradle his face, and Richie's mouth slots against Eddie's in full, lips gentle and warm and soft. Eddie tastes like toothpaste and beer, clean and fresh and simple. His lips are soft and warm, and so, so small against Richie's.

Richie can't move fast enough. _Time_ can't move fast enough. There are 100 things Richie wants to do, 100 places he wants to touch and taste and smell and feel... but he does none of them instead, rooted to the grass, addicted to his fingers lacing with Eddie's, his tongue tracing against his lip, begging for entrance without a single fucking clue what to do if he were to even get it, operating off of pornos and his mom's shitty romance novels.

All at once Eddie realizes this isn't a daydream. Richie moves against him, and he feels an intense and hot plunge in his stomach that's definitely going to lead to a boner really fast. His head swims too quickly for him to keep up with, and it's like trying to lasso a cloud anyway, his thoughts all too jumbled and disjointed to form anything coherent. All he knows is this is real, and Richie is kissing him back. He can't even remember exactly how they got here, who made the first move, but it's happening. 

And then he feels Richie's tongue against his lips at the same time he hears a loud shriek of laughter in the group of seniors down below, and he's pulled in two very distinct directions at the same time. He both wants nothing more than to open his mouth for that tongue, while every nerve in his body clenches up in a visceral sense of fear. He pulls away gasping, but doesn't pull his hand away, staring at Richie with glazed-over eyes. 

"Someone could see," he whispers, making it clear that the reason he's cut it off is fear of retribution, rather than a desire to stop. He doesn't address the fact that it happened, or what it means for either of them that it did-- all he's scared of is being found out. His mother's opinions on things like this aren't a secret, he knows exactly to what kind of camp he'll be sent if even one senior at that party down there sees and spreads the word.

"They won't," Richie replies without thinking, and ducks in for another kiss. His fingers cradle Eddie's jaw, the tips find the hair at his neck, his temple, stroking and combing through even as they're interrupted again by another peel of faraway laughter. Richie's already shaking his head before Eddie can protest, insistent and borderline desperate. He's here, they're _here_. It's beautiful and dark and warm and fuzzy, Eddie is beside him and god he smells good, and Richie's hands are on him and god he _feels_ good too-- "They're not paying attention to us, Eds, they're not," Richie insists as he holds his friend, not wanting him to slip from his fingers or realize what they were doing. 

Very real fear races through Richie, mirrored by very real desperation. Hunger and need, self-preservation and selflessness, the need to keep Eddie safe just as strong as the need to keep him here, in the broad circle of his arms, half-curled into his chest. His tongue flicks out to drag over his lip, and for a blissful second he can pretend it's Eddie. He can actually remember the feel of their lips now, so it was easier.

With a cursory glance over his shoulder at the festivities below, Richie feels that bone-deep desperation sink into his guts again, uncomfortable and hot, and he decides this time not to stop it. He leans forward again to capture Eddie's lips in another kiss, just one more before the spell was broken, one more to remember him by, to remember this night by-- Richie sears the memory of Eddie's lips into his brain even as their teeth click against one another uncomfortably, the hand on Eddie's shoulder falling to his hip, where hungry, curious fingers curl into the warm baby-fat and squeeze.

Eddie breaks the kiss one more time, but this time it isn't to protest. He looks down past Richie's shoulder at the kids below, gauging their involvement in the activities down the hill and quickly assessing the risk. One of them is playing guitar badly, several others are swaying and singing along, one person appears to be asleep face down, one person is facing the place the water spouts out of the dam into the river below... nobody is looking up at them. And from down there, with their dark vision ruined by the light of the pit fire they're gathered around, there's no earthly way they could see the two boys sitting almost entirely hidden from view on top of the hill with its tall black grass. 

And then he thinks about how bad he wants Richie to keep touching him like that, so he grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him in again, this time a bit rougher than the last so their teeth connect again, but this time Eddie opens his mouth into it, and when Richie's tongue touches his, he _moans_ through his nose. 

By all respects, it should disgust him, the sensation of a tongue in his mouth. It should repulse him, but whether it's the alcohol or because it's Richie, he can't find it in him to think about germs. He pulls harder on the taller boy's shirt, dragging him in until they're chest to chest, and then gives in to the sway of his body, dragging Richie down on top of him, completely obscuring them from view as the grass springs up around them, shielding them from the world. It's just the two of them and the moon, now.

A surprised noise leaves Richie's throat without thinking, and he falls on top of Eddie with a dumbstruck look on his face-- clearly in awe, clearly in love. His lips are parted, wet and swollen from the heavy kiss, and his glasses have even gone askew from the fall, leaving Richie flush-faced and astonished at the sight beneath him. He has the forethought to enjoy it, at least. One arm raising to push himself up, Richie looks down at the length of Eddie's body-- the splotchy flush across his chees and face, the hazy look in his eye, the delicate curve of his throat, his shoulder, his skin- God, Richie would pay _money_ to taste Eddie's skin-- 

And he realizes now he can. Spread out in front of Richie like a meal, Richie has to take a second just to look down at Eddie splayed beneath him, to marvel at his bared skin, free of hasty, flushing embarrassment or goading of their peers. Richie's hands smooth down Eddie's chest, curling under his back.

He leans in at the same time, lifting and cradling Eddie even as Richie kisses him like a man starved. Their legs tangle in the grass, Richie's body looms over Eddie's and pins him to the earth, and he kisses the smaller boy until their mouths bruise. Richie's tongue explores his mouth, overeager and overwhelming, licking into his teeth, dragging against the length of Eddie's own, while that hand smooths circles into Eddie's lower back to keep him close. Above them, the breeze tickles the grass around them, whispering like a happy sigh, one of Richie's legs raising to open Eddie's wide, as he sighs as happy as the wind, if not moreso.

This is not what Eddie expected would happen tonight, but he decides right now that even if his mom _does_ find out he snuck out and grounds him for the rest of the summer, it would have been worth it. His voice is too high pitched in his throat when Richie's leg comes down between his own, and suddenly informs him that he's _rock hard_ in his jeans when the pressure collides with his groin. He moans in his nose, the noise chased by a wet gasp in his throat when Richie breaks the kiss just far enough to breathe, his voice disappearing down the larger boy's throat. 

" _Fuck_ , Richie--" it's the first acknowledgement he's given out loud that he's fully cognizant of the fact that it's his friend, his very _male_ friend looming on top of him like this, his hands still fisted in the front of his shirt like he's afraid he'll try to pull away. "Shit-- I'm fucking hard, dude--" 

There's no point trying to hide it, Richie can feel it against his thigh. He's jerked off a handful of times, it's not something he does nearly as often as he's sure Richie does, but he can say with confidence that he's never been this hard in his life. His cock is aching in his briefs, tight against the seam and tenting the front of his jeans. If he wasn't so buzzed he might not have said it, somehow afraid that him getting off on this would be the line drawn in the sand.

The silence of the night is punctuated by Richie's gentle laughter, low and quiet and fond, as Eddie's frantic little statements seem to miss the point, entirely--

"Yeah, man, of course you are. That's the point--" Richie mutters. His words are casual but breathy, barely able to piece together how he felt in the wake of such a confession. Eddie was hard underneath him, hard against his thigh, Richie could feel that now, and he could barely understand the fire that blooms in his belly in retort. He was hard, too, of _course_ he fucking was, had been half-mast since Eddie had taken off his shirt and laid it out to dry; but this was different. That was incidental, this was _very much_ intentional-- and all the better because Eddie wasn't yanking away. He wasn't afraid, he wasn't upset. His hands pulled so tightly on Richie's collar he was half-sure he'd pass out from air loss, but the larger boy didn't even give a shit if he had. He would die a happy man if he could die with the taste of Eddie's skin.

So why wait? "Just don't cream your jeans, man, I still got some stuff I wanna do," Richie whispers, his voice almost a growl, a tone he was certainly not used to. He bends, then, body arching over Eddie's as his mouth slots against his throat. Unlike their kisses, there's no teeth involved, no bruising pressure, too terrified to leave hickies despite his impulses, knowing damn well his mother would see. So instead he places a trail of kisses across Eddie's neck, tracing his collarbone with his tongue, even as those hands on his lower back slip lower still, and grab the soft curve of his ass, long fingers kneading as he moans. 

At this rate, the only jeans that were getting creamed were his own. He didn't even care.

"Oh," Eddie says, soft and stupid, when Richie's mouth makes contact with his neck. He'd never had anything even close to lips at his throat, and is shocked with the intense pulse of pleasure that goes through him at the gesture. It tingles in the corner of his jaw and behind his ear, and he feels another hot plunge in his cock when Richie's tongue makes tracks against his skin.

It should _disgust_ him. He should want to scold Richie for slobbering on him-- but all he can do is make helpless little noises in his throat that only fracture into smaller broken pieces when Riche grabs his ass in his jeans. Richie has no goddamn right to make him feel this small and like it.

"Holy shit dude," he wheezes, his hips rutting up against Richie involuntarily, his stomach clenching and full of fire. "Holy shit _holy shit_ \--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, same--" Richie's just as stupid, just as voiceless, his words dissolving into grunts, his brain overwhelmed by feeling. There aren't words to say or quips to give; Richie has nothing but action to offer, and Jesus fucking Christ does he give it willingly. Those fingers curl and knead into Eddie's ass, pulling him up, grinding him into the fly of his own jeans marked by a resolutely similar bulge, his cock straining, his body aching in every goddamn synapse to feel more, press more, urge more. He could fucking eat Eddie alive right now.

By some sheer force of will, Richie doesn't. He buries his nose into the fluttering pulse point of Eddie's throat and sucks in a heavy breath like a bull. It smells like him there, like his soap and laundry detergent, a little like the natural musk of a hormonal boy, too-- which hits Richie straight in the dick so hard his face pulls into a pained grimace while he moans and drags hungry- open-mouthed kisses across his skin.

There's so much he wants to do, but can't, so much potential to indulge in, forbidden. He can't bite Eddie like he wants to, can't suck on his skin or feel the pulse for himself. At best, Richie's tongue flattens against that spot, tasting salty sweat and skin. His teeth drag across Eddie's skin, but Richie doesn't bite, he doesn't suck. It's hard enough to leave a trail of a flush in his wake, but nothing that would last. 

"Do--do you think I can--" His throat almost closes. Holy shit, was he going to touch Eddie's dick? COULD he touch Eddie's dick? Was he _allowed?_ Would Eddie run? "What can I--?" Richie can't ask. He can't ask and he can't take. Cowardice, pathetic goddamn cowardice marking him as the wimp he was, and Richie instead grinds his hips down into Eddie's, pinning him into the ground and rutting against him like he would a pillow back home.

Eddie's hands are shaking as he runs them up Richie's arms, just to feel the length of him. He's lanky and sinewy, not at all built yet like a man, but even as a boy Eddie is wild about him in ways he's been denying to himself for too long. Looking back on it, it makes sense that everything was building to this. He would always want it to come to this. 

"Anything," he gasps stupidly, his head tipped back in the grass, a dark red flush glowing on his cheeks and across his nose, down his throat and blotching on his pale chest. He's so pale he practically glows in the moonlight, his chest heaving under Richie's touch as his hands wind and squeeze around the taller boy's biceps. "Y-- you can do anything."

He would take anything at this point. Anything Richie could give him, any sensation or experience. Even just rutting against him like this until they cum would be the most mind-blowing experience of Eddie's short life, and they're already nearly there. His stamina as a teen isn't exactly otherworldly, nobody has ever touched him like this before and he's coming apart at the seams.

Richie can't breathe. He couldn't think. Eddie's breathless little gasps went straight to his dick, and the full access he'd been given was almost too much to consider. What was 'anything'? Did Eddie even know what he was saying? Because if the answer was _anything_ then Richie would sink his teeth into Eddie right now and not let go, mark him up with bruises like he's seen their girls beginning to sport in the hallways, necks proudly mottled like they'd been strangled.

For someone with so little to say, Richie had an awful lot to think, and it was that relentless hurricane of thought and emotion that he fought against now, struggling to breathe and turn his torrent of thoughts into action. 

Touching Eddie's dick meant moving his hands, and Richie found he wasn't quite ready to do that, yet. One arm raises to settle over Eddie's head so Richie can bear properly down onto him without squishing the smaller boy beneath his weight. Unwilling to release his ass and too afraid to take the plunge to go for anything beneath his fly, Richie tucks his face into Eddie's throat and snaps his hips forward, fucking into the smaller boy without fucking him at all, toes digging into the grass for leverage, body tightening at the feel of those slim thighs raised around his hips.

Not for the first time with Richie, Eddie has that complicated emotion of feeling like a girl and liking it. Lying on his back half-undressed in the grass, his head all fuzzy and warm with the heady swim of alcohol, he doesn't have the capacity for deep enough thought to question why this turns him on so much, he just knows it does. He plunges headfirst into the feeling without asking questions for the first time in his life, ready to take risks and experience something new without researching it first. 

"Richie--" he whimpers his name, turning his head to give the other boy as much room to work his neck over as he wants, and he links his ankles together behind his hips without even thinking about it, desperate for that closeness. He's able to use the leverage to squeeze and flex his thighs and return the gesture, rolling his hips up to meet Richie's deep downward grind. 

"Holy shit--" Richie half-cries at Eddie's quiet whisper of his name, "Say it again," He begs, "Say my name, say my name again, Eddie, fuck-- say it again, man, _please_ \--" It wasn't even a quarter of the things he'd wanted to say, not even an eighth, but every trapped word seemed to come free in the face of Eddie's whimper. His name sounded so fucking sweet on Eddie's lips, so fucking perfect and beautiful and hot as all shit--

"Richie!" Eddie complies, his voice tight and small, stuck somewhere in his chest. "Oh fuck, Richie--"

Teeth find Eddie's throat again, this time the nape, where the skin is delicate and soft, as of yet unmarred by stubble, and Richie nips. Just once, on accident, his teeth coming together against the skin harder than he means, just as another hard grind of his own hips draws a moan from his chest, "Sorry, sorry--" he whispers quickly, pressing quick, gentle kisses to the spot, which had immediately bloomed red, as if his skin was just looking for an excuse to flush. Maybe it was. It didn't need to look far.

Throwing one arm around Richie's shoulders, Eddie finally gives into the blind desperation to touch, and his other hand slides up under Richie's shirt to feel his stomach where it flexes and rocks, fascinated with every cog in the machine that's bringing Richie down on top of him like a hammer striking a nail. He flattens his palm against his belly, dizzy with pleasure over the way the flat plane tenses and moves, every part of him working together to drive Eddie to the brink of insanity.

Richie's breaths come in deep, heavy pulls, all the way into his gut. They're labored, and as soon as the warmth of Eddie's hand spreads across his gut, Richie can feel himself breathing into Eddie's palm, for the sheer feeling of having his hand on him, "Holy shit," Richie whimpers again as he tilts his head up, dizzy from the legs locked at his lower back, the arm wrapped around his neck, "Eds-- Eddie-- holy _shit_ \--"

"Shit-- shit, Richie--" Eddie's voice breaks on his name, squeaking in his throat. "Richie I'm gonna-- fucking _jizz_ if you don't slow down man--" 

It's not exactly a threat, he's pretty sure at this point that's exactly what Richie wants to do to him, and knowing that they're hurtling at mach speed towards that final bell that can never be unrung makes him clench with anticipation. Would this make them lovers? Boyfriends? Would Richie even want that? Eddie knows he could never bring himself to ask.

"Hang on-- hang on, fuck--" Richie can barely hang on, himself, so he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on. But there's still something he has to do, one last attempt at preservation, to keep whatever this is whole and real and possible.

Richie's hand slips from Eddie's ass to pull at his pants, quickly and relentlessly popping open the button on his jeans, then his zipper. He doesn't ask, he doesn't think, doesn't pause to consider what it means or if Eddie will react poorly; Eddie's already given his permission, after all, right? This is just doing what he'd offered-- and so Richie pulls Eddie free from his briefs and his jeans, holds his cock in his hand, and jerks him roughly in his palm, pulling him away from his jeans and briefs, preventing as much of a mess as he could and getting to touch his dick in the process.

It's so much so fast that all Eddie can do is slap a hand over his mouth. It's instinct, he always has to be incredibly quiet whenever masturbating at home after he learned the first time that if his mother hears she will barge in to yell at him for sinning. It's also good, considering the amount of people currently down the hill from them, who might not be able to see but would definitely _hear_ Eddie squeal in pleasure. 

Honestly it's embarrassing how quickly it's over, but the feeling of Richie's hand directly on his skin is overwhelming. There was no hope of him lasting more than a couple seconds, a couple strokes and he's gone. His back arches, his eyes squeezing shut, and he cums across his stomach in long white lines, pearly in the moonlight. 

Without a doubt, it's the most intense orgasm of his life. His whole body trembles and shakes, his thighs squeezing tighter around Richie's hips as he fucks up into his hand, sloppy and quivering. He moans against his palm, all muffled and squeaky, and for a few agonizing seconds he thinks he's going to pass out, there's no way he could withstand this level of sensation safely-- and then finally the peak of it passes and he sags back in the grass, his hand falling away from his face... and he hiccups. And then he hiccups again, groans, and turns his face into the grass to giggle helplessly.

Richie hadn't even had time to appreciate Eddie's dick in his hand, and frankly, hadn't thought to. Pulling him out had been mostly for Eddie's benefit, a self-saving measure if there ever was one. Cum didn't get out of jeans very easily, and if his track record was to be followed, it always lead to very uncomfortable conversations... one that Richie did not want Eddie to have to deal with, not on the back of this. So he waits for Eddie to finish before tucking him back away, not looking at him, not touching him for any longer than was necessary-- though he does leave his fly unzipped, just until he cooled off a little.

Looking down at Eddie now, Richie can barely stand it. Disheveled and flushed, pale amongst the grass and shiny with the thin veil of sweat, Eddie was absolutely striking. He was beautiful, and even as Eddie giggles and turns away, Richie can't take his eyes off of him. He also doesn't seem like he's in any rush to take his eyes off of him, shaking fingers raising to his nose and pushing his glasses further up as his own breathing evens and slows, becoming more manageable as the heat between them fades into a blissful afterglow, illuminated by the warm, Summer night.

The silence feels too perfect to break, the moment to surreal to tarnish with words; But Richie is Richie, and the night only remains undisturbed for a minute before he swallows through his tongue and mutters, "You totally almost creamed your jeans, dude. I told you not to," Smiling tentatively, anxiously, as if scared of what happens next, "You're lucky I got you, man." 

And Richie is so, so lucky to have him.

Eddie hiccups again, drunk and stupid and smiling, and he tips his head back to look up at Richie again. He's too buzzed to think in words about consequences, or what any of this means, all he can think is _Richie, good, feel, more, now._

"You're an ass-- _hic_ \-- asshole--" he says, but he's grinning lazily from ear to ear. He unlinks his sneakers from behind Richie's hips and raises one hand to cup the side of Richie's face, too drunk to consider the fact that his own semen is quickly cooling on his belly. He can't find it in himself to worry or fuss for once, he just reaches down to grab the front of Richie's jeans, popping the button and pulling down the zipper so he can fish him out too. 

It's a blessing that he's as buzzed as he is, because he might have talked himself out of it otherwise, but as it is his brain is disconnected from his body, making him bold enough to wrap his hand around Richie's cock in turn, and pull on him roughly.

"Woah, woah, woah--" Richie says quickly, practically choking on his tongue as he hastily stumbles over his words, scrambling to think of something, anything to say in protest. Eddie didn't have to touch him, he never had to do anything, he didn't want Eddie to get nervous or chicken out, or-- 

But Eddie's hand is so fucking _soft_ around his cock, despite how hard he jerks him, and Richie's entire body goes hard even as his mouth goes slack, "Eddie-- Eds, Eddie, wait--- _wait_ , man--" What is he waiting for, he doesn't know, and that much is clear by the way he stupidly looks down at the smaller boy even as his hips begin to stutter forward and thrust into that soft palm, acting on instinct and following through due to horrible self control.

Richie's head ducks, a curtain of hair falling over his shoulders as heavy, dark curls enclose them behind a veil of pseudo-privacy, warm silence punctuated by staggered breaths. Richie doesn't take his eyes off of Eddie's face, burning the look in his eye into his memory, wanting to remember every last detail about this moment: The flush of Eddie's cheeks, the wetness of his lips, how bruised and swollen they'd become-- And Richie doesn't even try to stop himself as he leans forward the rest of the way, bringing his lips to Eddie's in a desperate, hungry kiss as he cums into his palm, spunk joining the mess on Eddie's stomach and a broken, choked moan raising through the air.

Eddie commits to memory as well, the feeling of Richie right now. Even if this never happens again, he wants to remember every little detail-- the way Richie breathes into his mouth, the way his cock pulses in his hand, throbbing along in time with the seed jetting out of him. Eddie feels every hard clench of Richie's pelvic floor, the shudder in his muscles, the wobble in his breath. Every shred of detail is copied down in perfect relief in Eddie's mind as Richie cums on his belly. 

"Wow..." he whispers, and then hiccups again, unsexily. God, he feels so fucking drunk.

Richie takes a second longer to put his brain back together, but he's also probably not nearly as drunk as Eddie, who has been turned into a giggling, affectionate mess under him. He wonders if the moment will fade, if the liquor will wear off and Eddie will be left with the memory of what they did, and hate Richie for it. Maybe he'll think Richie did it intentionally, a predator faggot like what their teachers and parents warn them about.

 _Is_ he? Richie can't help but ask himself the question, guilt and fear twisting uneasily in his gut.

But that was a thought for a sober boy, anxieties for late nights not with his current company. So Richie ignores it in lieu of smiling crookedly down at his friend, lip curled into a spent, astonished half-smile, "Didn't know you had it in you," he admits, voice breaking, "You... really fucking went for it. Weren't kidding about repressed Catholics, huh?" Richie finally turns to flop on the ground next to Eddie, gasping into the night air, reaching out blindly to try and pull Eddie flush with his side. 

Sentimental? Yes. Affectionate? Yes. Bordering on relationship-y? Yep. Richie decided he wasn't going to look too hard at it.

"Ech, wait," Eddie hiccups again and kneels up, crawling over to the edge of the water, and he uses a handful to clean off his stomach, wiping the evidence of their escapade away on a rock before he flops back down into the grass beside Richie, laying an arm across his stomach. If he thought cuddling would be the line Richie would draw, it seems he was mistaken, and he pillows his head on his chest with a soft sigh. 

He's too buzzed to ask questions, to wonder if this is going to change everything between them, or if they're going to move forward from here and pretend this never happened... but either way, he's glad it did. 

Eddie's watch beeps then, before he has the time to really luxuriate in Richie's arms, and he lifts it blearily to his face to see that in a flash, it's become five in the morning, and he realizes with a startle that he'd absolutely just fallen asleep in Richie's arms. He jolts upright, disoriented and confused, unaware that he'd even been tired enough to sleep, much less sleep shirtless in the grass in full view of-- he whips around to see that the fire the senior party had been nursing has gone out and all the kids that had been gathered around it are gone. His heart is pounding in his chest as everything comes flooding back, and he realizes how dangerous what they'd just done was. 

He knows if any of the seniors had seen them, they would have said or done something, but the fact that they could have come to close has his throat closing up with panic. He looks down to see Richie stirring, and reaches down to shake him awake, too. "We have to go," he hisses, his body long since metabolizing the beer and a half he'd had, leaving him sober and cracking under the weight of anxiety. "I need to get _home_ , Richie, _wake up_."

"Huhn--?" Richie groans, stirring in the grass and raising a hand to rub at his eye, met with the creaking crack of his glasses instead, and he moans when he realizes he'd fallen asleep. He hadn't meant to. Having heard Eddie drift off almost immediately after their tryst, Richie had been determined to stay awake to savor every minute with the boy in his arms and his head on his chest. He'd wanted to breathe in the smell of his hair forever, feel his warm breath against his neck until it was immortalized in his brain.

But he'd fallen asleep, and looking up, Richie can see the once pitch-black sky beginning to streak with red and purple dawn. Sitting up, Richie shoves his glasses straight onto his nose from where they'd gone askew, muttering a clumsy, "Shit." 

Standing and buttoning his jeans-- one of the only things that proved last night had happened at all-- Richie stretches to grab Eddie's shirt from the rock and throw it at him, tugging a hand through his hair and pulling his shirt back down, "Come on, let's go, my bike's just across the bridge--" He says quickly and takes off at a brisk walk, grabbing Eddie by the hand and half-dragging him as he went. He would have picked him up if he thought Eddie would have had it; As it was, he just made Eddie keep up with his much-longer strides.

They practically blink across the hill and the woods, Richie's bike fortunately untouched by the seniors. Whether they hadn't seen it or simply hadn't paid attention, it didn't matter. Richie yanks it up and pats the handlebars, "Get on and hold on, I'll take the back streets so no one sees us--" he says hastily, barely waiting for Eddie to be situated before he tears off.

Now that he's sober, his teeth chattering in his mouth both from anxiety, and from the wind battering against his slightly damp shirt, Eddie's mind is awash with questions. He knows better than to ask if that had really happened, he knows the difference between a daydream and reality. They'd been cuddling in the grass with their pants unzipped, of course it happened. But what does it mean that it happened? Is Eddie gay now? Is _Richie_ gay? Has he always been gay? He can't be, he talks so much about girls. 

Eddie doesn't know if this makes him gay, or if that even matters. What he wants to know is if it's going to happen again. If it is, they're going to have to be a lot more careful next time, this time they just got _lucky_ that nobody caught them. He doesn't even want to think about what'll happen if his mom catches them. 

He has so many questions he wants to ask Richie, but he can't get a single one of them out as they bike around the back of his house, where his bedroom window is still open. Eddie doesn't see any light through the window, which means his mom still isn't up, something which relieves him enormously as he dismounts Richie's handlebars. And then he just stands there for a moment, stock still facing away from the other boy, looking up at his window. 

Eddie has to say something. He can't just walk away without acknowledging this happened at all. But when he turns around to face Richie, his heart starts pounding so hard that his throat closes up, and he just stares at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights, breathless and silent.

Richie's heart had been pounding in his throat since they'd taken off in silence. He isn't sure what to say. On the bike, at least there wasn't anything really to say... It wasn't like they could have some kind of in-depth conversation over the wind and in the middle of the street. But now that they were here, at Eddie's house, and they'd both confirmed that his mom wasn't aware of his absence, and they actually had the time to talk. 

And of course of all times, now Richie couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Not one. 

It doesn't help that Eddie is looking at him like he's the world, like the ball is in his court. He looks a little scared, a little confused and nervous. He looks like he doesn't know how to take the next step, or what the next step even is-- and that's fair, because Richie doesn't know the answer to any of those questions, himself. He doesn't know how to answer those eyes, that desperate, absent look on his face screaming for anything at all.

"We should figure out a way for me to get your attention without me throwing rocks," Richie finally says, and figures it does the job. Sort of. It implies there would be a next time on Richie's end, at least... whether Eddie wanted to reciprocate it or not. "You think you could leave your blinds open a little and I could shine a laser pointer in there? It'd be like the bat signal, and then we wouldn't have to worry about that," Richie gestures to the crack in Eddie's window, wonders if his mom will notice it or not. She fully might not. She doesn't seem super observant unless it's something directly involving her son.

Rubbing a hand in his hair again, Richie ruffles it, curls fluffing up and falling in front of his face, purely intentionally, so he could hide a little from the weight of Eddie's gaze, "Unless you need your beauty sleep or whatever. Then I guess I'll just sleep like everyone else." An out, should Eddie want it: and the knowledge this was only for Eddie, he wasn't about to go sneaking off to find someone else.

Eddie's chest unclenches when Richie all but tells him he wants there to be a next time, and he swallows hard. "Do you even _have_ a laser pointer?" he asks, his hands trembling. Richie wants this to happen again. This is going to happen _again_. He could shake right out of his skin, at this rate. "J-- just use a flash light. I'll see that even through the blinds, if they're closed."

He's frozen again for a moment, locking up with fear that somehow he's misinterpreting this-- or that maybe Richie is. He wants to make it clear that he wants it to happen again, but he can't seem to get any words out. So he looks both ways to confirm they're alone, before he just puts a hand on Richie's chest and arches up on his tiptoes to kiss the corner of Richie's mouth before quickly turning around to grab the drainpipe and begin the ascent up to his room.

Behind him, Eddie can probably definitely hear the wheezed breath that sucker-punches its way from Richie's gut with that kiss, and the hoarse, quiet mutter of, "Cool," The only word of acknowledgement he could think of in the moment, his head craned up to watch Eddie go. He can still feel that ass in his fingers. He rubs his hands on his pants, like he could overwrite the feeling. 

Richie wondered if he could crawl up there after him, hide in his room and kiss him between his mom's nagging, worried visits. He doesn't even try, but damn does he think about it.

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, Richie watches Eddie climb and get into his room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched somewhere to his ears. Only when he looks down at him from the safety of his room does Richie duck his head, like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar, before busying himself with picking up his bike-- as if he was trying to make it look like he hadn't been watching Eddie until he couldn't, anymore. 

He offers a wave, just one, before Richie straddles his bike. With a final glance up to Eddie's window, he ignores the burning in his ears and chest, and takes off back down the street, to get home and be lectured, no doubt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure, the outfit Eddie is wearing in this chapter is fully inspired by "A Test From God" by imwalkinhere, here on AO3. Highly recommend.

The next time Eddie sees Richie is just two days later. He'd been trapped within the usual festivities of Sunday, dragged along by his mother to Church, and then the church's lunch potluck, and then evening mass like usual, but while he usually paid rapt attention the whole time just to engage his mind as much as possible to make the day pass quicker, this time he was caught in daydreams the entire day. His mother noticed a couple times and asked him what he was thinking about, and he would give vague answers every time-- usually related to the book he was reading for extra credit, an answer which always seemed to satisfy her. 

In truth, he was just waiting to spontaneously catch fire or be struck by lightning, for thinking about the way Richie's hand felt on his cock in the middle of church. 

But then he sees him the following Monday, as casual as he ever sees him. He leaves the house after breakfast on his bike, and runs into first Bill along the way. Ben catches up with them a moment later, followed by Mike-- but it's Richie joining them a second later that nearly has Eddie veering into traffic. There's a harrowing moment where Eddie thinks for sure that somehow their friends are going to be able to telepathically tell what happened just two days ago, but Bill just greets Richie like usual, and Eddie exhales in a gust like he'd been punched.

It was uncharted territory. Richie didn't really know where things went from here: and worse, he didn't know what the procedure was to take things _anywhere_. Weekends were usually bad for Eddie, he knew that much at least. Saturday was chores, Sunday was church, and inbetween were the hundreds of agonizing, nitpicky things Eddie's mom made him tend to, during the only days of the week during the Summer where she could safely monitor everything Eddie did, without work to get in her way. 

All the magazines Richie read said to wait at least three days before calling a girl and setting up another date. One day was too soon, two days was just bordering on desperate-- but three showed interest without being creepy, and Richie didn't want to come off as creepy. He wondered if the rules were different because they were boys, if Richie really didn't have to worry about Eddie in the same way he would have had to with Beverly because Eddie was just... Eddie. 

Girls overthought things. Girls were kind of stupid and irrational like that, and definitely liked playing hard to get. Richie didn't quite "get" girls. Funnily enough, he also had no interest in getting them.

Which was why it might've been a little ironic, considering if anyone overthought anything it was Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. 

When they see each other next, though, it isn't weird or awkward. They hang out with the other boys and Richie spends his time ignoring Eddie's ass, or his hand, or his mouth, or his hair. It'd be unrealistic to say Richie doesn't stay glued to his side-- but Richie is usually glued to his side. It'd be weirder if he was standing away from him, and the last thing Richie wanted was to worry anyone. And that was definitely all it was about.

Except even Richie knew he wouldn't be able to make it much longer without getting to see Eddie again. He'd had a taste and now he was addicted. He couldn't stop thinking of Eddie, couldn't stop remembering him. The taste of his lips, the feel of his hand, the sound of his voice-- Richie needed to hear Eddie whimpering his name again, needed it more than he could remember needing anything in his entire life. 

So 'appropriate' timeline be damned, Richie formulates a plan to meet up with Eddie again, and puts it into action not 2 days later, the day after a particularly lazy day at the pond leaves Richie feeling lightheaded and dumb, seeing Eddie mostly naked and so close Richie could almost touch him. He doesn't, never in front of all of their friends like that, but it's too close a call to take lightly. 

Not that Richie really needed the excuse.

At one in the morning on the dot, a brilliant red beam of light-- clearly from a flashlight with some sort of color filter on it, not a laser pointer-- flashes through Eddie's windows. It shines once, holding still for a long moment, then two shorter bursts, then three, until the flashlight is flashing like a strobe in the dim lighting of Eddie's room, Richie's impatience getting the better of him, as it was so want to do.

This time Richie's just lucky Eddie's awake. He'd actually gone to sleep hours earlier, around ten, but he'd been up and down the hall to pee just minutes earlier. He sees the light flashing at his window when he comes back in, and quickly glances down the hall to make sure the light hadn't alerted his mother. He sees the faint blue flickering glow under the crack in her door, from the TV she always falls to sleep watching, and nothing else-- so he quietly closes his door and locks it from the inside before immediately padding over to the window and lifting the blinds first, the pane to follow. 

He leans out over the sill, grinning from ear to ear. He can't help himself, there's a giddiness already rising in his chest just looking down at Richie standing there, pocketing his flashlight. 

"Hey," he hisses down to his-- friend? They're definitely still friends, but he doesn't know if he's supposed to call him something different or new, now. His stomach clenches at the thought that he could, even just privately to himself. "Give me a second, I'll be right down."

He doesn't even try to argue this time, and it's all the signal Richie needs that Eddie knows exactly where tonight is most likely to end up, and is running along full steam ahead. Tonight it's a little warm for full pants, he'd been sleeping in just a tee shirt and his briefs, but he doesn't want to get caught in his night shirt if they encounter someone, so he puts on a proper outfit, tugging a white polo over his head and his favorite red running shorts, a pair of crisp white socks up to his knees and red sneakers-- and then at the last second he decides to grab the gold chain bearing his cross necklace off the corner of his mirror. If they get caught, it'll be easier for him to play the part of the innocent Christian boy if he can clutch at his cross necklace while the police eyeball them for truancy.

He clips his fanny pack around his hips and sets his watch for another alarm, and then makes his way down the gutter like before, those red shorts sinful from Richie's perspective as he carefully climbs down to join him in the grass.

Eddie had asked for a second, and Richie had anticipated him grabbing the usual: Inhaler, keys, maybe a spare shirt this time or a snack-- But what Eddie reveals as he begins to shimmy down the rain pipe makes Richie's entire body go dumb and deaf. He stares, openly and without rationalization, as Eddie's ass gets closer to him, and Richie wonders if he took a step forward and just made Eddie lean into the wall while he grabbed him, if Eddie would let him or if he'd fight, or--

But even Richie doesn't dare push that boundary, not when the stakes were so high. Whatever weird relationship Eddie had worked out with his mom was one thing, but actually poking that bear was a whole other monster Richie didn't dare to encourage. He didn't know what the consequences would be, but he could guess, and he refused to chance it, refused to chance anything that might ruin what they had. If they _had_ anything. Whatever this was, anyway.

It would take too long for Richie to school his expression into something neutral, too much effort to beat himself into submission: So instead, it seems like Richie doesn't even bother to do either. When Eddie turns around, he's greeted with quite-possibly the most dumbstruck, awed look he'd ever seen on Richie's face. His eyes are downcast, focused on the chain glinting at his throat, at his arms briefly, but then full on staring at the long expanse of skin between shorts and socks like he'd never seen anything like it. Richie's tongue drags over his lip, and he swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing as his brain seems to go through a force-reset process, just so he can formulate a thought that didn't involve Richie's mouth on his thighs. It was fortunate for them both-- or maybe mostly just Richie-- that his plans revolved around giving him the opportunity to do just that.

"You look great," Richie says without hesitation, blurting out the compliment like a boy possessed, before zipping his lip and biting back whatever else he'd wanted to say, before he made an even bigger ass out of himself. Quickly Richie bends over, grabbing his bike from the ground and standing it up, desperate to give his hands something to do before he really made a mistake he couldn't undo. 

One leg over the seat. Stand on tip toes. Hold the bars steady "Come on, Choir Boy," Richie manages, but he's the one who can't look at Eddie too long without salivating, so who was the real choir boy, here? "I got someplace cool to show you. I think you're gonna like it."

"Hang on," Eddie scoots his fanny pack around to the front so he can unzip it and pull something out with a breathless grin, and he holds up a pair of back wheel spokes, and a tiny socket wrench. "I got them yesterday, after the pond. Hold still."

He kneels at the back of Richie's bike and quickly pops the lugnuts off of either side of Richie's back wheel, and then carefully screws on the no-slip spokes, until he can't twist them any more. The nuts and wrench go back into his pack, which he swivels back around to sit on the small of his back before he tests one of the grips with one foot, and then the other, hopping up and bracing his hands on Richie's shoulders. 

"Perfect," he says, and slaps the other boy's shoulder. "Giddyup."

If Richie feels regret burning deep in his chest so hot and so sore like an open wound, he definitely doesn't say anything about it. He definitely doesn't out himself feeling sad about not being able to cradle Eddie in the warm circle of his arms anymore, or not being able to breathe in the wafting scent of Eddie's hair as Richie pedals downwind of him.

Instead he gets Eddie's hands on his shoulders. That's okay, but it makes his stomach clench so angrily that Richie decides he'll 'lose' the pegs after today. Doesn't matter how bikes could lose their spokes. He lived in a bad side of town (he didnt) anything could have happened (not that)

Richie hopes his face doesn't betray how truly sour he is over Eddie's perch at his handlebars being replaced with him at Richie's back, and instead does as he's told: He giddy up's, bike lurching forward like he was trying to knock Eddie off-balance before he tears down the street, and ends up heading into town instead of away, in what looks like quite the opposite of what Eddie needed: Privacy. That is, until they turn into an alleyway before they weave their way into the streets of the town properly, and find themselves at the back door to the arcade, the name of it on a small, worn placard, the door locked with a chain.

"The arcade?" Eddie asks as his sneakers hit cement, his brow furrowed. "We've been here before, Richie-- it's not even open, look, it's locked."

He looks up and down the alley, afraid that at any moment a patrolling police car might trundle by and shine its light on them, catching them in the act of... of what? Being outside while gay? Jesus, did he just think of himself as gay? His stomach clenches hotly at the thought.

"Yeah, I know," Richie admits, and begins patting down his pockets, "Old man Martin's been getting pissed 'cause kids keep breaking in and spraying paint everywhere and trying to play the games. From what he told me, he said that he'd rather lose some cash then risk them hurting the games or his change machine, so he turns them on freeplay at night." 

When Richie's hands still, he pulls out a coppery key of all things, which he grins wolfishly across at, "And man, you're never gonna guess where he kept this thing," Richie says, sounding a little bit giddy at the possibilities that stretch before them. His hands free the padlock, carefully and quietly setting it to the side before he opens the door, "Losers first," Richie teases, ushering Eddie inside.

"Did you _steal_ that?" Eddie hisses, nerves climbing up his back. There's an intense fear inside him that they'll get caught, but he knows that there's no cameras in this place. In fact, its lack of cameras makes it a very popular place for teens to bring liquor and cigarettes, and get away with smoking and drinking during the day where adults won't run into them. 

He wants to protest... but then he thinks of the possibility of a repeat of the other night, indoors where there's no chance of them being caught, and so when Richie waves him in, he hops up the step into the arcade without protest. "Bring your bike inside so nobody sees," he hisses instead, and pads across the faded carpet towards the game cabinets.

Richie does exactly that, and the reason is twofold. One, if he brings his bike inside and leans it against the door (which he does) it'll probably dissuade anyone from breaking in after they've broken in. Two, it they do decide to come in anyway, it'll definitely make a noise and give the two a chance to sprint out the front door before they're grabbed and... done whatever with. Richie didn't really want to find out, honestly.

But the chances of people breaking in were slim at this time of night. Martin also talked about staying open later to accommodate the kids, although he hadn't started doing that, yet. Apparently most of the vandalism happened before midnight, the pussies.

What the pair walk in on, however, is rows and rows of dark, turned-off games, not a single 'Freeplay' light blaring or advertised on any of the obviously turned off screens. It was worse than freeplay. It was nothing at all. Richie would have been disappointed if it weren't for his plan B, already tucked away in the photobooth in the corner, left there earlier today. 

"Man, this sucks," Richie mutters morosely, going from machine to machine pressing buttons, hoping any one of them illuminates with some form of life. When they don't, Richie seems to sink deeper and deeper, "What a fucking waste, dude. Think we could find the power box?" He asks, turning to glance at Eddie over his shoulder.

"Are you _joking?"_ Eddie hisses. "We're already breaking and entering, do you know what the standard sentence is for B&E misdemeanor? One to three years. We're already pushing our luck just being in here, but if we go poking around in the basement and start turning stuff on? Not only is that unsafe, there's no way this building it up to code, it doesn't even have fire alarms--" 

Eddie's set off at a gallop now, rambling about all the ways it's criminal and negligent for them to even be here, but it's just a nervous tic at this point. He's just about vibrating out of his skin, being alone in a dark building with Richie.

Richie leans against one of the dead machines, not arguing, just watching and listening to Eddie's nervous little rant with a bemused smile that only grows the longer and longer he goes on, talking about prison sentences and building codes like he even knows what the fuck he's talking about. As if either of them could find the master power switch for the machines if their life depended on it. Richie had been lucky to find the key to the padlock, but that didn't mean he knew fuckall else about this place. 

So, while his nervous little friend continues to balk and criticize the establishment that had become like a second home to Richie, the lankier boy begins to walk to the photobooth, hands in his pockets. He makes it casual, like he's still wandering around, only half-listening to what Eddie might be saying, and by the time he gets to the entrance of the booth, Eddie has reached a lull that Richie quickly takes advantage of.

"You know, you're really lucky you have me, man. You'd never have fun if I wasn't around," Richie admits, then reaches into the photobooth and pulls out a duffel bag. Not much of a reveal. "Wanna see Plan B?" He asks, grinning.

"Plan B? You have a plan B? Since when do you think enough about _anything_ to have a plan B?" Eddie asks as he trots closer, his heart pounding in his throat. He knows what he'd _like_ to be plan B, but he doubts anything he's thinking about would involve a duffel bag that Richie clearly had the foresight to hide. Was there ever even a plan A at all, if he had this hidden here ahead of time?

"I thought enough about fucking your mom, and I needed a plan A, B, C, _and_ D to make that work--" Richie can't help himself from crowing, raising the duffel bag so Eddie can't get a peek inside or grab it open, himself. And while his mom was literally the farthest thing from Richie's mind, it wasn't so off the mark. He was certainly thinking about a Kaspbrak. "Do you wanna see what I have, or not? Ask nice."

"You know, I don't know that I do," Eddie says, a flush rising to his cheeks and ears. "Quit talking about fucking my mom, you're so nasty--" he can't start getting _jealous_ of Richie making the same your-mom jokes he's made since he's known him, not now. That would be just too embarrassing.

"You think _that's_ nasty, you don't even want to know what I have planned with this--" Richie says, taking a step forward, unable to help himself but to crowd Eddie's space a little more than necessary, "You really don't wanna know what's in here? I stashed it here for us, and paid some assholes like 15 extra bucks to make sure it was good, too, so--"

Eddie feels everything below his ribs clench up at once when Richie gets up in his personal space, and he takes a half-step back not to get away from the other boy, but just so he can brace his hands on the gaming cabinet behind him, the flush spreading down his neck. He probably shouldn't be this easy to fluster, but fuck-- he can't help it when Richie takes up all the air in the room.

"Okay, what is it?" he asks, clearing his throat.

Richie actually flags a little at that, even if his gut feels as if he had swallowed fire. It's easy, so fucking _easy_ , and any doubts Richie had about Eddie not wanting this to continue fell away as soon as those hands found the cabinet. It was like he was actively opening himself up to Richie, putting his hands where he had no hope of defending himself.

The cross against his neck is practically mocking Richie. He wonders if it'll burn when he sucks on it later. Gross thought, Trashmouth. Move on.

Bringing the bag down, Richie tugs it open and pulls out an entire 6-pack of beer, which he sets on top of the arcade game, "This stuff's supposed to basically be tea, my mom drinks it all the time. Tastes like an arnold palmer. And!" Richie goes on before Eddie can protest, pulling out a blanket, and Richie's personal, prized handheld game console. It'd been imported from Japan a few years ago, and Richie had basically sold his soul for an entire school year for it. He looks over at Eddie a little expectantly, holding it up, "Since I kind of promised you a game." 

Although he had to wonder how long he'd last before burying his face in Eddie's thighs. If he was allowed to. He wasn't even sure if that would be good for him.

That confirms to Eddie that Richie never expected the arcade to actually have freeplay up at all-- he just wanted a quiet place to be alone with him. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, and he's breathing hard enough that the cross keeps catching light from the exit sign and bouncing it into Richie's eyes, but he tries to act casual. He doesn't want to seem too desperate for Richie to touch him again, even if his shorts already feel a little tighter than they were before. 

"More drinking?" he says, because complaining is his comfort zone. It isn't that drinking sucked last time... it actually led to the best night of his life, so far. But he doesn't want to think that he'll have to get drunk every time before Richie will touch him. At the same time, if Richie still needs the stuff to feel brave enough to touch him... well, maybe if the tries a third time, he'll say something about it. Instead, he reaches out to grab one of the bottles. "You know if my mom ever figures out I had a drink, I'm going to tell her it was you and she'll never let me hang out with you again."

Not that she would let them hang out like this in the first place, even without the alcohol. Just being in a place they had to break into, in the middle of the night-- Richie really is a bad influence on him.

Richie hesitates, "We-- don't have to drink," he offers, and feels his heart twist with his guts, nerves making his usually slick mouth falter, even as Eddie takes a bottle, anyway, "Just figured last time it got you to relax, I thought it'd help. And since you were such a bitch about the beer, I got you liquored-up lemonade," Richie sets the bag on the ground, trying to control the heaviness of his breaths, the way he felt his own words catching in his throat thanks to nerves and insecurity. He talks too much, as per usual, overexplaining in a desperate bid for understanding.

What was Eddie thinking? That he only wanted to drink? That he only wanted to fuck Eddie when he was drunk? Was this confirming the 'evil gay' stereotype he'd been so afraid of? "Let's just forget it. Forget it, it was a stupid idea, I just thought that-- I thought it'd be cool if we, you know--" Richie's face twists into an awkward grimace as he shoves his glasses up onto his forehead, pinching the corners of his eyes tightly before he grabs the blanket and begins to spread it out. 

"We can just talk or whatever, too, man," Richie explains, making what looked like a very comfortable nest on the ground, framed by the bag, by the games, by Richie, too, when he finally sits down and awkwardly pats the spot next to him, "Like-- those shorts, we _gotta_ talk about those shorts. Is your mom making you wear those around the house to do chores, or did you just get a glimpse at the girls' locker room and figure you'd give 'em a try?"

"What? No, they're just comfortable," Eddie says as he sits on the ground beside Richie, crossing his legs indian-style, so Richie can fully see the bulge of his package between his legs. There's no way it's not intentional-- or he would think that anyway, if Eddie wasn't looking at him with those soulful black puppy eyes, not at all trying to be seductive. "I'll grow out of 'em eventually, but I've had them since middle school. Hand over the key, I don't mind if we drink, I wanna see if I can get it open like you did."

"No way," Richie says, but does as Eddie asks, holding the key out to him as he tries not to focus on how close their knees are to touching; Eddie's bare, and Richie's clad in denim. He could swear he could feel the warmth radiating from it despite the layers between them. "My uncle taught me that when we were camping and I thought my mom was gonna shit bricks. I bet she would've given your mom a run for her money, her screech was so loud, man. Said he was gonna make me an alcoholic," Richie doesn't take his eyes off of Eddie.

The tip of Eddie's tongue pinches between his lips, his brows furrowing over his eyes as he figures out how to work the tip of the key under one of the furls of the bottle cap. It slips a couple times, and his nose wrinkles in concentration, until finally he manages to catch one of the teeth of the key just right, and with a click and twist, the cap pops right off the neck of the bottle. 

Eddie gives a delighted noise, his eyebrows shooting up as he looks up at Richie, full of joy as anyone has any right to be. He catches Richie looking at him with that lovestruck expression Eddie's so used to seeing on Ben's face whenever Beverly visits, and goose bumps visibly raise along his arms in the half-light of the dim arcade, lifting all the hair on his arms. "Got it," he says, and hands the key back, clearing his throat and raising the bottle to take his first sip. 

It actually doesn't suck this time. It tastes pretty good, actually. Not exactly like lemonade, but whatever's in it that makes it alcoholic was bound to change the flavor a little. He takes a few deep gulps easily, and doesn't even choke or cough once.

Richie can only smile back in the face of such genuine, earnest excitement. It's a softer look than one he has around his friends, where his smile is always comically big and comically bright, all teeth and strained muscles in his cheeks and neck. The smile he wore now was soft, barely anything more than the corners of his lips curled upward-- and yet somehow it managed to reach his eyes more than any whole-face grin he'd offer his friends. 

"That was okay," Richie agrees, before leaning over to grab a bottle for himself, "But you kind of fumbled there, man. If you wanna really look slick you gotta do it all at once, like..." He leans over to take Eddie's hand with his own, pressing the cold metal key back between his fingers. Richie doesn't let go, guiding the smaller hand through the motions of catching the first few teeth of the key on the grooves of the bottle, then twisting it away from them, the bottle opening with one, crisp pop, "See?" Richie asks, turning to glance over at him, "That was ten times sexier than whatever you did." 

His words were said with no heat, and that was probably because it simply wasn't true. Shit given for shit's sake, Richie looks sideways at Eddie before leaning back, flicking the bottle cap at him, "You should put that in a scrap book or something. Baby's first bottle," There's a little teeth in his smile, now. Old habits dying hard.

"I don't _have_ a scrap book," Eddie lies, and swats the bottle cap away, but as soon as Richie closes his eyes to tip his bottle back, he snatches it off the ground and sticks it in the open pouch of his fanny pack, and then quickly lifts his own bottle to seem casual, like his heart isn't about to beat out of his chest from a simple touch to his hand. 

He scoots closer, close enough that their thighs touch, and gestures to the game console. "Show me what you brought," he says, his breath smelling like lemons and the faintest hint of mouth wash from a few hours ago, warm against Richie's shoulder as he leans on one hand behind him, nearly pressing his shoulder into Richie's rib cage. It would only take a couple inches for him to be fully leaning on the taller boy.

"Oh, right!" Richie says excitedly, setting his bottle down a little too hard to instead grab his game. It was hard to see, the arcade barely lit at tis time and the screen a little less than bright, but there's the telltale sound of the 8bit Street Fighter theme, and Richie glances sideways at Eddie to see if he's as impressed with his toy as he clearly is, "They only have Street Fighter II for this, which sucks, but they're apparently releasing a sharing thing so you can play other people with the game if you have a cord for it-- can you see?" 

Turning into the warmth of Eddie's body, Richie is struck all at once by how close they are, and his fingers twitch on his own game, his resistance immediately challenged as soon as he catches a bare glimpse of thigh. As he loads up a game and picks his favorite fighter, Richie begins to play. He hops it sounds casual enough when Richie clears his throat and asks, "So if your mom doesn't make you wear them, were you wearing those shorts to sleep, or..." Or were they a gift or Richie? It was an important question.

"No, I wasn't sleeping in-- I didn't have any--" Eddie clears his throat, too. "I told you, they're just comfortable. I put them on cause it's hot tonight, you got something to say about it?"

He glances up at Richie, kind of hoping he does have something to say about it. He doesn't usually wear these outside anymore because they've gotten pretty short on him. He has had them since fifth grade, after all. They're well broken in, the fabric thin and soft on his skin, even if they're pretty heinously little at this point.

"Yeah, actually. You look like you're going to gym class in hell with these," Richie retorts hotly, and his hand raises off the console like he was actually going to make the move and grab Eddie's thigh, only to fall short and pluck, ineffectively, at the thin, well worn cotton. "It's gonna cool down at like, 3am, and you're gonna be pissed you wasted all your warmth already. Shit, I'm getting hypothermia just looking at you." 

Unable to help himself, Richie does it. His hand shifts from cloth to skin, and his broad palm curls around Eddie's thigh-- and even though he's definitely trying to play up the 'concerned friend' role, the hand on Eddie's thigh was not generically friendly, squeezing him. With Richie's eyes focused on his hand on Eddie's thigh, there's no way in hell the way he misses Eddie's dick twitching in his shorts. It jumps against the fabric visibly, and Eddie's breathing immediately picks up, his chest rising and falling quick enough that it makes him feel a little light-headed. 

"Shit," he whispers, embarrassed by how easily his body reacts. Honestly he's been on the edge of arousal since the second he saw Richie's fucking flashlight in the window.

"Really?" Richie can't help but ask, voice tinged with awe as he looks down at his friend-- although that word seems to cheapen it, so he'll have to think about it more later. For now his thoughts are overwhelmed by Eddie, by seeing his cock jerk behind those little cotton shirts and feeling his thigh twitch and tremble under his hand. He doesn't look mad, though-- Maybe a little inspired, really, as his thumb raises to stroke a slow, intentional circle into the pale sliver of skin, blue eyes watching Eddie intently through heavy, half-lidded eyes.

"S-- sorry," Eddie gasps, his belly doing a little shudder under his shirt. There's the sound of the tinny fatality death rattle from the game console, and his eyes dart briefly to the screen before looking back up at Richie's face, his eyes magnified under his glasses so they're even bigger and darker than usual. "Y-- you, uh-- you just died..."

"Eddie..." Richie mutters, and it might have been heartbreaking if his hand wasn't on Eddie's thigh and curling further inward with every second. Fingers dragging against the silky, velvet skin and making him marvel with every graze of his fingers, it felt _wrong_ to touch him with these hands, his fingers not hard but certainly calloused from the effort of just... being a boy. But not Eddie, though. Eddie was soft everywhere, from his voice to his thighs, and Richie couldn't stop _touching_ him. It comes easier this time when Richie decides to make a move, and he leans forward to close the space between them, covering Eddie's body with his own as he mutters, "I don't care," before kissing him again.

There was some quiet, stupid part of Eddie that thought despite all the evidence, that he'd completely imagined their last encounter like this. It had felt too good to be true, something he would dream about rather than something that would actually happen-- but those last lingering thoughts are sandblasted right out of his brain when Richie kisses him. 

To the tune of the character selection screen in the background, Eddie doesn't hesitate this time. With the same sort of absolutely unearned confidence as he'd kissed Richie with the first time, he crowds immediately into the other boy's space, throwing a leg up over his thighs to sit in his lap and return the kiss with equal force. Both of his hands dig into Richie's hair, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head so he can dig himself a little hole in between all of Richie's long limbs, and kiss him deeply without the crunch of plastic or glass against his cheeks.

Richie is overwhelmed, all at once. He doesn't stand a chance. The graze of fingers on Eddie's thighs had been too much, had been an intoxicating amount of allowance given to a boy who had proven he did very little to earn it-- To have an armful now feels like gluttony; It feels fake, it feels like a set up. He'd have pinched himself to prove he was dreaming if he was capable of doing literally anything other than smoothing his hands up Eddie's thighs to his hips, then back again, until they finally untuck and wedge up Eddie's shirt and he's gifted another beautiful touch of fingers on silken, smooth skin.

"Holy shit," Richie mutters into the kiss as he breaks away to breathe. He's back in no time at all, leaning forward to capture Eddie's lips again with more bruising weight, their teeth clicking. Richie's tongue doesn't ask permission politely this time, giving no tentative swipe of muscle on lips before Richie claims Eddie's mouth. His tongue curls coyly against Eddie's, pries moans from his lips, while his hands grab at Eddie's ass, and fingers catch on the elastic of his shorts. 

"Take your shirt off," Richie mutters into Eddie's mouth, breaking the kiss into a dozen tiny, fleeting ones, punctuating his words, "I want to see you, dude, take-- your--" He doesn't bother finishing his sentence. Eddie gets the picture, and Richie is too hungry to go that long without his tongue down Eddie's throat.

Eddie carefully drops his cross necklace under the collar of his shirt before untucking it the rest of the way from his shorts, unclipping his fanny pack and letting that fall to the ground along with the white cotton. Richie's glasses drop back down over his eyes, gifting him the sight of Eddie stripping the shirt off over his head, his back arching and dark hair fluffing up around his ears, rumpled by the collar. The gold chain drops back down against his chest glinting in the dim light, and his nipples immediately harden in the cool air of the arcade, pebbled and pink on his pale chest. 

He doesn't give Richie long to oggle though before he's cupping his face in both hands and leaning in to kiss him again, his mouth open and just as hungry to feel the other boy's tongue on his. The goose bumps are back on his arms, and not just from the cold room-- his entire body is pulsing and buzzing with a tight, anticipatory sort of pleasure that's already got his cock hard and tenting the front of his shorts. 

"Richie--" he gasps against his mouth, tangling his fingers in his friend's long black hair. The curls feel heavenly around his fingers, he wants to _die_ with his hands in Richie's hair so it'll be the last thing he ever feels.

Richie never knew his own name could get him to feel so hot and electric, like 1000 marching ants crawling inside his veins and making him itch from the inside out. The hands in his hair certainly don't hurt, but it's his name from that voice in particular that has Richie groaning and leaning forward again, this time to bite at Eddie's lips just to feel him between his teeth. It was a little reckless, a little ill-advised; Who knew what his mother could see or infer, who knew what his mother would take as a bruise and what would leave Eddie hospitalized.

But Richie decides it's worth it for the opportunity to drag his tongue across Eddie's lip in apology, to suck it into his mouth and follow with another full kiss while his fingers curl onto Eddie's hips, "You have no idea how bad I wanted--" Richie mutters, shaking his head as he breaks the kiss again, this time to trail his mouth across Eddie's jaw to his ear, then down his throat, "Fuck, Eddie, I want to--" More thoughts unfinished, interrupted by his own trail of kisses, now burning down Eddie's throat and shoulder, and this time accompanied by teeth.

The risk against hickies is still far too high, as much as Richie wanted nothing more than to give Eddie something to look sheepish about in the locker room or the halls or at the lake with their friends. He wanted nothing more than to be able to see his mark on Eddie and preen at just the sight of it alone, but he can't bear to take that step still, satisfying himself in dragging his teeth against his skin and leaving only feather-light nips and nicks with his teeth, always followed by a kiss. His tongue curls around the metal of his cross just like Richie promised himself it would, and he kisses Eddie around it, the metal cold on his tongue whereas the rest of his mouth is hot, unable to stop himself from sucking the faintest red mark into the nape of his neck.

The understanding that Richie really had set all of this up just to get his hands on Eddie again makes him tremble with arousal in the other boy's lap, panting through his nose and leaning into every little affection he has to give. This is so dangerous, if they're caught here like this, not only breaking and entering but sodomizing-- 

God, _would_ Richie sodomize him if he asked? He feels his ass clench just at the thought. He's very familiar with what anal feels like, thanks to his mother's constant dragging to the hospital. He's had colonoscopies, anal exams, and more enemas than he could ever hope to count, he knows what it feels like, probably more than Richie does. 

It's probably too much to ask, though. Especially in an arcade where they could be caught. He's already pushing it just having his shirt off again, it'd be so much harder to play innocent if they are caught-- but just like before, any anxious thoughts in his head are blown away by the hot brand of Richie's tongue on his skin and his groping hands. 

"I want it too," he says, his voice cracking. He doesn't know what Richie wanted, but the other boy could ask to cut his name into his skin like Bowers did to Ben so many years ago and Eddie would agree.

Richie had never been the strong one out of their group. Mike had only filled out over the years, and Ben was definitely nothing to shake a stick at, either, but when Eddie admits he wants it too, without even knowing what it was that Richie wanted, well-- fortunately, Richie was never one to look a gift Eddie in the mouth.

Arms locking like a vice around Eddie's hips, Richie pulls the smaller boy flush to his chest, affording himself another selfish, little trail of kisses across the boy's shoulder before he flips them. He makes sure Eddie doesn't slam on the ground, setting him down almost gingerly before straddling him. Richie pushes his glasses straight with fingers that tremble with adrenaline, swallowing as he looks down at Eddie splayed on the blanket beneath him. 

"You're fucking beautiful, you know that?" Richie says, mouth suddenly dry as cotton as he stares at the vision Eddie made of himself, sinewy and pale and perfect, fitting so well between his legs and under his body, "You're really-- like a goddamn statue or something, you should be in the fucking-- that one museum in London, or whatever, or Paris--" And again without permission, Richie leans down, this time to dip his kisses lower, to breach the skin he'd been fantasizing about for almost a week.

Eddie's chest is as supple as it looks, his skin smooth and soft, and Richie can't help but raise brilliant patches of red wherever he goes, teeth and tongue with a mind of their own as he nips and sucks fleeting kisses down his skin, until he finally hesitates over Eddie's nipple, like he was trying to work up the courage to take the leap. Cursing under his breath, Richie catches Eddie's nipple with his teeth and his cheeks go hollow as he sucks it hard, tongue curling against the pebbled flesh, teeth catching on the tight nub.

"The-- the louvre?" Eddie's question cuts off with a sharp moan and a hard slap-- the noise of his own hand coming down over his mouth. His back arches and his eyes squeeze shut, his sneakers kicking helplessly at the blanket he's laid out on like a butterfly on a pinboard. His cock lurches in his shorts, and his other hand clutches at Richie's hair. 

The only experience Eddie's ever gotten with his nipples are hard, mean twists from friends and bullies alike. He knows it hurts worse there than on other parts of his body when he and Richie used to have pinch-fights to see who could go the longest without crying or yelping-- but he didn't know that would mean it would feel _better_ than kisses on other parts of his body, too. He whimpers in his nose, his thighs squeezing together and rubbing, grinding up against Richie's ass, his toes curling in his sneakers. It feels so good he thinks he's about to start crying, or throw up, or have a fucking asthma attack-- but he doesn't do any of those things, he just humps unsteadily against his friend's jeans and whines muffled in his throat.

The muffled sounds hit Richie's ears, and he can't have that. There was a reason he'd picked a closed space, free from prying eyes. There was a reason he'd gone through all the trouble of snagging the key left dangerously on the owner's desk, at risk of getting himself banned from his favorite place in all of Derry: And it wasn't to listen to Eddie muffle himself against his own hand. Richie's hand raises and grabs the hand muffling Eddie's mouth, and it takes an astonishingly little amount of effort for him to yank it down and pin him to the ground. 

"I want to hear you, Eddie," Richie says, and is even surprised by how stern he sounds, how serious the hunger for Eddie's voice makes him. Richie's fingers slip between Eddie's own, the pin turning into the laced grasp of lovers instead, as his mouth finds Eddies opposite nipple, sucking and licking until it's as hard as the first, and Eddie's chest and arched into the air.

There's an audible, wet noise as Richie pulls away, his lips shiny with saliva, and he looks down at the vision he'd made as if planning for his next move, "There's no one here, Eds," Richie finally murmurs, squeezing their joined hands and leaning back down over him, voice rough in his ear but bright with almost childlike excitement, "You can be as loud as you want." 

And when Richie goes back down, it's lower, tongue leaving a trail of slick in his wake, as he bites and sucks his way across Eddie's belly, opposite hand raising to twist his nipple between two fingers, but this time without the intention for pain, wanting to hear the smaller boy crow.

"Shit!"Eddie yelps, grabbing Richie's wrist-- not to pull his hand away from his chest, just to hold him. His other hand squeezes, intertwined with Richie's, and he realizes how small his hand is compared to the other boy's. It makes his head swim. 

"Richie-- fuck, oh my sweet baby jesus holy _shit-balls_ \--" he babbles, the mouth on his stomach making him absolutely fucking feral. It sends bolts of pleasure to his cock so intense that it has his legs shaking, and he's hyperventilating quick enough that he has to actively start mellowing and deepening his breath just to chase away an asthma attack that threatens to put this whole thing to an end. He squirms, both wanting to get closer to the pleasure and wiggle away from it, the intensity of it making him restless and conflicted. 

Sensation this intense is making him feel weird, not in a bad way just a weird way. His brain is all buzzy in his head like it's carbonated, and he still kind of feels like he wants to cry, but like happy cry? What's that about? He feels the urge to do those big, smiling happy sobs he sees people do in church sometimes, the kind that always looked fake from a distance, but now he feels like he's about to do it if he doesn't keep a grip on himself. 

"Richie-- Richie, Richie _please_ \--" he doesn't know what he's begging for exactly, he just wants his friend to know that he's doing a good goddamn job of whatever it is he is doing.

Their fingers never separate, not even for a moment. Richie wouldn't dare drop Eddie's hand, not with the boy twisting like a leaf on a breeze, not without damn good reason: and one just couldn't seem to pop into his head. So he holds on tight and keeps Eddie pinned, his body much heavier than the smaller boy's and his hands like an iron anchor pinning Eddie down by the chest.

He'd think he was doing something wrong if Eddie didn't sound so absolutely fucking dirty as he begged Richie for some nebulous _something_ that only exists in a world where they both have mental faculties and can remember any goddamn word that they want to say. As it was, Richie took the begging as encouragement, and his tongue dips impishly into Eddie's belly button, curiously and immediately getting a hard smack of what could only be Eddie's taste. Clean, sure, but salty and heavy and earthy, too, the musk of boy centralized in such an untouched place-- And Richie drags his tongue through Eddie's belly button again, until his teeth catch on the soft skin of his belly and he nips, moving on.

Richie's free hand slips from Eddie's chest to his leg, and he spreads Eddie open with slow intention, his hand marveling not for the first time at Eddie's thigh. He wonders what it'd be like to taste it, to feel that skin on his mouth-- and all at once, Richie remembers that he fucking can. There are no fucking rules in the after-hours arcade, no rules that they weren't already breaking with gusto.

So Richie gives in. Skipping the clothed section of Eddie's waist entirely, Richie brings his lips to Eddie's raised knee and kisses him like a boy savoring a lollipop. Lingering kisses begin to trail tediously slowly up Eddie's porcelain thigh, mouth lingering on every angle of his knee, until his teeth join the party, grinding in as the skin softens the higher up he goes.

Eddie gives in to the urge to sob when Richie starts kissing his thighs. He had no idea a body could be so fucking sensitive, the feeling of lips and tongue against his inner thighs makes him keen and gasp, his voice sounding high-pitched even in his own ears. With his legs spread properly now around Richie's head, the effort of holding them up and open for the other boy's exploration has them quivering down to the bone like the muscles of an overworked draft horse, involuntarily shivering and shuddering all the way down to his trembling ankles. 

"Shit-- shitshitshit--" he wheezes through clenched teeth, his cock aching hard in his shorts. There's a whisper of anxiety in his head that stupidly tells him he can't touch himself, that if Richie sees his dick then he'll somehow remember that he's a boy and call this whole thing off. As if Richie hadn't jacked him off just two days ago. 

For once, he's able to override his own anxiety, and he reaches down to untie the prim little white bow in the middle of his hips, tugging the band down under his cock. It hurts too bad, trapped in his shorts, all bunched up and tight, and he breathes a sinful sigh of relief when the elastic of his briefs release him and his dick springs up to sit straight up on his hips, leaking from the tip. He arches his hips up into Richie's mouth, staring down at him stupidly, his cock bobbing with a hard pulse at the sight of his friend worshipping his inner thigh, his mouth sealed around a patch of skin in a deep, toothy kiss. 

"Fuck," he whimpers, grabbing and squeezing his cock, which leaks over his knuckles. "That really fucking tickles, man-- but like in a-- in a makes-me-wanna-jizz way--"

Richie feels the reveal of Eddie's dick like a punch to the gut. Leaning back, Richie watches Eddie pull first his shorts down, then his underwear, until finally his cock is leaking over his own fingers and Richie is just forced to sit there and see it without doing anything about it. Of course that's not necessarily true. He doesn't have to be powerless in this situation, doesn't have to sit and watch Eddie like a exhibit at a zoo-- but God is it tempting, like a show just for him.

"Well-- well don't do it yet," Richie says quickly when he remembers he has a voice, too, and is fully capable of using it. He'd stared at Eddie for too long, his cock aching and twitching in his own jeans. He wanted to join, wanted to pull himself free and jerk himself off in unison with Eddie, wanted nothing more than to feel that hand on his dick-- but he wasn't done. There was more Richie wanted to do before he played like that.

And so he ducks back down, eagerly devouring that sliver of skin that had been visible to him all night, that wide band of thigh that had taunted and teased Richie since he'd convinced Eddie to leave his bedroom. Smooth and supple against Richie's lips, he groans deep in his gut as his tongue drags across the skin, nose trailing further and further up, until he's safely hidden within the barrier of where Eddie's pants once were. 

Then, Richie bites. Hickies on Eddie's throat were no good, too visible to the common man; The same could be said of is chest and belly, no doubt his mother's prying eyes offering him no such privacy in the bath... but surely his thighs, that delicate, untouched skin that Richie had been salivating over for so long, surely that was the reprieve Richie had been looking for. So he bites into Eddie's skin like a man hungry for flesh, teeth sinking into the velvet of his skin as his cheeks go hollow, sucking a brilliant, purpling bruise into the meat of his innermost thigh.

Eddie yelps again, like he'd been shocked with a taser, his hips jerking up into Richie's mouth. His hands abandon his cock to grab his friend by the hair with both hands, wrapping his legs around his head like he plans to keep him there. His voice echoes off the walls of the empty arcade, the only other sound besides his breathing and whining is the chiptune buzzing beside them on Richie's game. 

"Fuck!" his thighs squeeze around Richie's head, his cock pressed up against the side of his head, tucked against his ear like a bookworm's pencil, hot and throbbing and absolutely weeping into his hair-- the same hair Eddie is grabbing in both fists by the root. 

Every time Richie touches him in a new place, Eddie thinks nothing could feel better. This, his teeth dug into his thigh, feel like a hundred little knives pinpricking his flesh, but the grind of his tongue and suction of his lips are soft and hot and heavenly. The contrast of the two feelings has him fairly thrashing, his head whipping from side to side, back arched and legs shaking. And when Richie pulls away and he sees the bright red and purple mark on his pale skin, high up enough that even these little shorts almost cover it, he feels his cock pulse again. 

He could suffer in the heat with jeans for a few days to wait for these bruises to fade... it would absolutely be worth it. He pulls on Richie's hair with both hands and gasps, "Another-- gimme another."

"Sweet," Richie agrees stupidly and promptly dives back down for another. He could live with Eddie's fingers in his hair and his thighs around his neck. He could live and die like this and be perfectly happy living off of only biting Eddie every so often, as if that was an appropriate way to get nutrition. Richie drags his tongue over the bruise he'd left, proud of his work, almost giddy to have been able to make one such mark at long last.

Slipping hands settle at Eddie's thighs, holding him up and holding him apart enough for Richie to breathe. His fingers curl into the warm cheeks of Eddie's ass, digging and kneading into the bare skin, the tips of his fingers dipping between them only slightly, to where Eddie was warm and clenching and sensitive. He doesn't go any farther than that, though, doesn't dare, not while he still had a thigh to demolish, and with such eager encouragement, too.

Richie uses his newfound leverage to place another deep bruise further inward, the top of his head brushing against Eddie's pert balls. Richie doesn't even care if he's getting Eddie's jizz in his hair, doesn't even mind if Eddie used his hair to jizz into-- Just being this close to his dick was making Richie want to cry, and if he wasn't so preoccupied with his new favorite place, he might have.

But as it is, Richie's teeth find the smooth, taut skin of his thigh and bears down, skin bulging and pulse steadily thrumming into the fresh, new spot. Richie's tongue lavishing over the skin, breathing wet, warm pants against him and punctuating it with the scrape and grind of his teeth-- another another deep, purple bruise raises to the surface, so urgently it's almost painful. Richie seals it with a kiss and turns his head to the untouched thigh, a fresh canvas, not waiting for Eddie's encouragement this time before sinking his teeth into the skin, those fingers slipping further into Eddie's crack, pulling him apart in time with his teeth.

Eddie can't help but wonder if people can go insane from pleasure, because if it is possible, he's pretty sure he's getting close to that point. Every time Richie finds a new spot to bite and suck and leaves a new, fresh mark behind, Eddie feels a little bit more of his sanity slipping, his hands still dug deep into his lover's hair. 

Did he just think of Richie as his lover? He did, he realizes. Amazing how quickly he can take running leaps over those lines he was afraid to tiptoe near just a couple days ago. 

"Richie-- Richie, jesus christ--" taking the lord's name in vain now, too, and gleefully so. His cock leaks again into Richie's hair, seeping between his fingers, so turned on he swears he could just die on the spot. Richie's fingers probing up the leg of his shorts and past the elastic of his briefs has him practically blacking out, his pelvic floor clenching up. "I'm gonna-- I'm gonna cum if you don't slow down--"

"That's fine, dude," Richie says without hesitation, pulling away only to drag a warm, wet swipe of his tongue over his canvas, marveling at the colorful array he'd painted onto Eddie's skin. He glances up at Eddie earnestly with those wide eyes, amplified by his glasses, fully darkened now with lust and a little crazy, to be honest, driven half-insane by the primal urge to claim, claim, claim-- "I'll just make you cum again. That'd be cool." 

He doesn't elaborate how he planned to get Eddie to cum again, wasn't even sure if it was possible. All the magazines he'd read and pornos he'd snuck glimpses at seemed to make it out to be a one and done situation, but Richie knew from personal experience that you could definitely still feel horny after you came, so why not cum twice? There was a recovery period, sure, but if he remembered class.... they'd said it was shorter for them.

So Richie aims to please. He buries his nose in that tender crook between Eddie's thigh and his hip, the joint where leg met hip, and he drags his teeth over here, too. It's bonier here, more sensitive but harder to sink his teeth into-- and so Richie doesn't. His cheeks go hollow as he sucks in a fourth bruise right there, where he could feel Eddie's pulse hammering to catch up with the demand of burst capillaries he'd just broken across his thighs.

Eddie clenches his teeth shut to try and keep quiet the ticklish squeal of ecstasy that squeaks out of him when Richie sucks on this new spot, too sensitive for him to even stand. The stem of his glasses presses up against the base of his cock, and the curls of his hair fall velvet soft against his balls, clenched up tight against his body. He's so close, he's so close, just the way Richie's breath fans across his hip through his nose has him going absolutely crazy. 

Richie's teeth rake across his hip bone after sealing Eddie's new bruise with a kiss, and it's that ticklish gutpunch that has Eddie cumming with a yelp, back arched and head tipped back. He shivers and shudders through it, and while it hadn't been as intense as the one he got from Richie's hand on him, it's still enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

"Fuck!" he sobs, his voice high pitched and hoarse and embarrassingly tight in his chest. He sounds like he's crying because he _is_ crying. Tears roll down his cheeks, overwhelmed with pleasure and emotion. It hits him all over again that he's on the floor of the arcade because Richie brought him here on purpose just to do this to him, just because he wanted to do this with him... the fact that Richie wants Eddie at all makes him want to cry.

Eddie fucking does it. He cums in Richie's hair. Richie is prepared to complain, prepared to jeer and tease and cajole-- but when he hears a _sob_ of all things leave his friend's lips, Richie leans back with a wet pop, pulling away to look over at Eddie, the concern knit in his face so overwhelmingly apparent, any trace of stern demand obliterated in an instant. 

"What's wrong?" He asks quickly, desperately, a tinge of fear in the normally-cocky lilt of Richie's voice, "Wait-- wait, did I hurt you? Are you okay? Hey--" Richie's need to protect Eddie once more supercedes his own desires, and Richie leans over Eddie to curl an arm around his shoulders, pulling him up and against his chest, "Don't cry, don't cry, it's okay, I don't have to do that anymore--"

But he'd cum. He'd asked for it. Richie's fingers smooth away Eddie's tears, brushing them off of his cheeks and following them with featherlight kisses, peppering them everywhere and anywhere he could reach. He tastes the salt from Eddie's cheeks, wicks it away with his lips as he smooths his fingers back over Eddie's thighs, long fingers rubbing and working blood back into the pained limbs. Was he crying because he'd cum? Was this some sort of fucked up catholic thing again? Richie really needed to research more on what jerking off did to religious types. Maybe he could ask Stan in a no-homo way--

"S-- sorry, sorry-- I'm not-- I didn't mean to--" Eddie gasps, more embarrassed now that Richie's acting weird. Not weird, he realizes, just... nice. Which is kind of weird, for him. "I'm not-- you didn't hurt me, I'm not-- I don't _know_ why I'm crying it just felt so good I don't know-- I'm sorry, don't be mad, you didn't do anything wrong--"

And just like that, Richie leans away, gentle words giving way to a confused tilt of his head and a furrow of his brow, "Wait. You're crying because I made you feel so good?" He asks, and if Eddie hadn't liked him being nice, well..... the slow, predatory grin that twists onto his face is proof enough that you have to be careful what you wish for. "You're crying because I fucking rock, dude? Holy shit, you're crying because I'm so fucking good at getting you off. You're-- Jesus fucking Christ, Eds, you're fucking _done_ \--" and he covers Eddie with his body and devours his mouth in a kiss that is downright giddy, heart full and cock twitching in his jeans anew.

"Shut--" Eddie starts, but can't get the rest of his scolding out, Richie's mouth claiming his and swallowing it for himself. 

He leans up into the kiss, bracing an elbow under him and reaching up to grab the back of Richie's neck, opening his mouth for the other's tongue-- but then he recoils and pulls back when his hand touches something sticky, and he realizes--

"Oh, jesus dude I jizzed in your hair, hold on--" he sits up in a rush, and grabs for his fanny pack. Richie is clearly upset by the change of pace, and he leans away from the touch that Richie tries to paw across his chest and belly as he grabs a wet-nap from the depths of the pouch and rips it open. "Hold still for one second, that's gonna fucking suck if it dries in your hair."

He dotingly drags the alcohol-soaked fabric through Richie's hair, collecting his semen and leaving a few spots in his hair damp but clean, before he balls up the napkin and just chucks it between the cabinets.

Richie can barely sit still through the mothering, so familiar but the context so fucking not. Richie can't say that he's ever sat still while Eddie cleaned his cum out of Richie's hair, but he's been forced to sit still through hundreds of other impromptu procedures-- cleaning scrapes, sewing clothes, fussing of scarves. At this point it seems like it's almost part of their routine, a little moment just for them.

Except this time, Richie can stroke his fingers across Eddie's sides, and legs. This time, his fingers dance and skip across his ribs and grab and pull him close, kneading his skin distractingly despite Eddie's stoic determination to clean the mess he'd made. Richie had already resigned himself to sneaking into his house and getting a shower before his family saw the mess that had been made of his hair, but this? This was nice, too.

"Are you _done?"_ Richie asks impatiently once the napkin finds its new home amongst the debris of the arcade, "Can I go back to making you _cry_ again?" He jeers, and this time doesn't wait for a response.

Pulling Eddie close by the hips, Richie lays him flat on his back, leaning over him. He doesn't descend upon him like a hungry animal immediately, though, as seemed to be his routine. This time his fingers take their time dragging across his body, fingers hooking in the waistband of his shorts. With one deft pull, he yanks them off and down over his hips and legs, throwing them in the same nebulous direction that Eddie's shirt had been strewn in. 

His mouth goes dry at the sight of Eddie in full, pale and perfect and dotted with red marks from where Richie had behaved and purpling black where he hadn't. For a long minute it looks like Richie is actually struck speechless by the sight of him, lips parted in quiet, unspoken astonishment as his hands smooth down his chest, fingers ghosting just barely over the softened line of his cock. 

"Look at you, dude," Richie finally whispers, like he'd seen God.

It feels bizarre, to be completely naked in an arcade, of all places. Well-- not completely naked. He's still wearing his socks, sneakers, and necklace. But he's almost totally naked, and he realizes that the next time their friend group comes here for an innocent game of street fighter, he's going to remember this. His eyes are going to be glued to the patch of dusty carpet where he was laid out on a blanket and tortured by Richie's mouth into tears. 

"Shut up," he says, instead of any of that mushy shit that Richie would only make fun of him for. But he doesn't bother closing his legs, feeling the throb of each bruise on his thighs keenly. He reaches up to adjust Richie's glasses on his nose, and then brushes his hand through his hair. "Look at _you_ , dude. You look like a little kid on Christmas."

"No shit, man, you're like-- the perfect fucking gift," Richie says, and a hand shoves Eddie's chest down, keeping him down on the ground so Richie can loom properly above him, leaning over him on one arm as his hand smooths down his hips, his thighs, tracing the path of destruction his mouth had just taken like he was considering his next move. He licks his lips like a dog looking at his dinner, lids lowering as he catches on the bruises mottling his thighs.

That's where his fingers land, digging into those bruises anew and watching Eddie's face while he does it, a new hunger raising in his gut. "...Flip around," he mutters, then tugs at his hip, "I wanna do something, just-- trust me, alright?" His heart beating in his throat, Richie doesn't want to say it first, wants to just take and let Eddie enjoy it without thinking. It'd worked out so far for them.

Eddie's gut clenches. Is this the part where Richie's going to sodomize him? (He thinks to himself that there's gotta be a better word for it than that, somewhere, he just doesn't know it) He flips over without argument or comment, laying flat on his belly on the blanket, and he props up on his elbows to look back over his shoulder at Richie, looming over his back. 

He looks so _big_ from this angle, taller than him by half a foot, with broader shoulders, longer limbs and bigger hands. He feels small, safe and protected under his friend like this-- under his _lover_. Like if even someone did catch them, Richie would need only cover his body with his own, and they would walk away without a word. He feels untouchable, like this.

Without Eddie looking at him, there's a second where Richie looks actually nervous. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his actions to push Eddie too far and for the boy to call it quits. It feels like it has to happen sometime, and when else would it happen but when actual... butt stuff gets involved? Hell, most guys called it quits as soon as they caught on that Richie was _looking_ at them in a type of way-- 

But not him. Not Eddie. Never once had Eddie shied away, never once had Eddie looks disgusted or scared or nervous about anything they were doing, only being caught, being discovered. So Richie sucks in a breath to control the nervous flutter in his chest and makes eye contact with him, half-smiling before pushing Eddie's head back down onto the blanket, "Don't look, freak," He teases, before beginning to pepper a line of kisses down Eddie's back, starting from his neck, then down his shoulderblades. He follows the raised line of Eddie's spine with gentle, feather-light kisses, before he finally pauses, right above his ass. 

"Just relax," Richie mutters, and it almost seems to be for his benefit as much as it is for Eddie's, before his mouth finally makes contact with one perfect ass cheek,

"I can't relax," Eddie scolds him, shivering under Richie's mouth. "Feels-- I just can't, okay?"

How could he, possibly, with Richie's mouth and hands on him again. With his body completely naked and exposed... if they were to get caught, he couldn't hide what they were doing. The chain dangling from his neck now would serve him no purpose whatsoever-- but just like before, Richie's mouth on his skin makes him forget his worries and woes, and he arches his hips up into his teeth.

"Does it feel bad?" Richie asks, pulling away from Eddie's ass like it had burnt him and raising his chin to give Eddie a pointed look, waiting for an affirmative. When none comes, Richie pinches a stubborn piece of baby fat at his hip, perfect and delicate and soft as it was-- "Then relax, I'm not gonna do anything weird."

And he wasn't. Well, not super weird. Richie knew that guys licked girls' stuff all the time, and they went wild for it. He also knew that girls licked guys' stuff and it felt great, too. This was just a hybrid of the action, the next step. So what if it was an ass and not whatever stuff girls had down there, it was the same basic concept, right? And god-- Richie really wanted to try. 

So he bends down again, hands gripping Eddie by the hips, and this time he tucks his nose into Eddie's tailbone as he sucks in a long, steadying breath, kissing a slow path down the rise of one cheek, then up the rise of the other, his fingers kneading Eddie's skin and slowly beginning to pull him apart-- Exposing the soft, warm core that smelled practically antiseptic it was so clean. Leave it to Eddie.

Eddie expects fingers at least-- or a dick if Richie's feeling bold-- what he _doesn't_ expect is a fucking _tongue_. His eyes shoot wide open and his mouth drops open to follow, shock hitting him first before anything else. Pleasure follows a second later, but lurching past even that with a start is something like horror. 

"Richie-- _jesus_ that's not-- _sanitary_ \--" he gasps, but even as he says it, he twists at the shoulder and grabs him by the hair, arching his hips up into the other boy's mouth. "Do you have any idea-- bacteria--"

That's all he can get out, his voice breaking into a moan as the pleasure overcomes whatever hypochondriacal fear he might have had, and he drops his forehead back down to the blanket, sobbing brokenly against the fabric. He'd said he wasn't going to cry again, but it feels so fucking good he can't hold it in. His hips rock back to meet Richie's mouth, and realistically he knows that if anyone's ass was going to be clean enough to eat off of, it would be his. His hygiene routine is absolutely fastidious, relentless to an almost obsessive degree, so what does he really have to be afraid of?

There's a 'your mom' joke in there somewhere, Richie can feel it on the tip of his tongue just waiting to be unleashed. He doesn't, refusing to ruin the beautiful moment of Eddie's sob piercing the air by bringing up that devil woman, so instead he smiles against Eddie's ass and flattens his tongue against is hole. With a liberal use of spit Richie can't even taste anything unsavory, and he seemed to never had doubted for a second that he would. Maybe if it was someone nastier he would have had his doubts and trepidations, but in truth Richie couldn't even imagine a single cell of 'bacteria' living on Eddie long enough to cause anything repulsive.

"Shut up, dude, I told you to relax," Richie mutters against Eddie's skin, turning his head to the side and delivering a bite to one cheek for Eddie's audacity-- and oh, that's dangerous, too. The give in Eddie's ass is almost as good as his thigh, and he turns his attention to there for the moment, teeth sinking into Eddie's cheek and joined by the powerful sucking of his lips and grazing flick of his tongue. He raises the blood to the surface just enough to ache and pulse, and looks proud when he leans back to observe his own work.

Richie wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before he dives back in for seconds, one hand raising to the back of Eddie's neck. He holds the smaller boy down by the throat like he weighs nothing, pinning him into place like a science experiment as Richie returns to his plunder, tongue slipping across his ass and delving between his cheeks, parted by Richie's remaining hand and curling against Eddie's furl, working him open in slow, deliberate flicks.

Where in the hell Richie got the idea to do shit like this, Eddie isn't even sure he wants to know-- because if he finds out the source of his lover's depravity, he risks falling headfirst into it himself, never to resurface. He fits a knee against the blanket just enough to raise his hips in approval, moaning openly against the blanket. The hand on his neck keeps his cheek firm against the fabric, and he doesn't bother to try and fight the pressure, he just fists the blanket in both hands and rolls his hips shallowly into Richie's mouth. 

It occurs to him that this whole time Richie hasn't taken a moment to touch himself once, or even let _Eddie_ touch him. Has Eddie been selfish? Has Richie been waiting for him to ask for a chance to return the favor? Is he supposed to say something about it? He doesn't understand the etiquette of this shit, he's just a virgin-- or is he? He doesn't know if any of this qualifies as sex enough to take away his v-card. 

The realization that he's having _sex_ with Richie should have hit him earlier than now, but it didn't. And now that it has, he feels a heavy pulse settle in his cock again, hanging down between his legs and steadily filling with blood. His hand tightens in the blanket, and his hole clenches around his tongue, tasting like salt and soap. He's having sex-- sex with his best friend, the boy he trusts more than anyone in the world. This is exactly the sort of thing his church has always said people go to hell for-- people like him now too, he supposes. No wonder people are willing to go to hell for this, he thinks to himself.

It's the rolling of the hips, for Richie, the tentative, nervous grind of skin back against his hungry, open mouth. He's clearly uncertain, clearly battling some subconscious, terrified part of him as they work, but Eddie's hunger wins out and his body reacts on instinct, and it's Richie who reaps the rewards. Mouth open, tongue out, Richie lets Eddie grind on his tongue like a sinner, happy to curl his tongue up and in and devour him in kind.

Never had Richie ever thought he would get this far. Every line he pushes, there's a large part of him that thinks that'll be it, it'll be over. One flawed boundary, one overstepped line, that was all it took for Richie's entire life to fall apart at the seams: and so Richie tries to toe where he think is safe, make plays he thinks would be looked on tolerably-- at least until Eddie inevitably lets go enough to enjoy whatever Richie has up his sleeve. But those first few seconds were always terrifying.

Which meant, for them, the worst was over. If Eddie was going to reject Richie, surely he would have by now. Surely he would have twisted around to shove a hand in his hair and push Richie's mouth away from his hungry, twitching hole, fluttering at the heavy pants of warm breath that tickle his balls and abdomen. A hand raising to tug his glasses off of his nose, Richie quickly sets them down next to his game console, just out of reach off of the blanket, and it's like he's given whole new terrain to enjoy, mouth slotting against Eddie's fluttering hole and moaning as he curls his tongue once more up and in, devoted to working the smaller boy over.

Eddie gets up to his knees, and there's a brief moment of panic in Richie where he thinks this is the moment Eddie's trying to call it quits, but then he just spreads his legs a little farther and lifts his feet up so he can get the toes of his sneakers against the blanket, and he looks back over his shoulder again. He's not trying to get away, he just wants to get more traction, so when Richie leans back in to resume contact, Eddie can properly buck back into his mouth. 

Ass in the air, cock hard and dripping between his thighs, Eddie thinks he must look like a sight. He wonders if he looks like people do in porn-- he's never seen porn before, but he bets Richie has. That's probably where he got this idea in the first place. Eddie's head hangs down between his shoulders, his arms shaking as he drops down to his elbows, his joints too weak to hold him upright. Everything Richie does makes him feel weak. 

"Can you-- can-- touch my--" he tries to get his words out, but a mix of chest-deep moans and embarrassment keep him from fully articulating what he wants. He hopes Richie can intuit, as his dick gives another achy pulse and drips down onto the blanket.

All the spit in Richie's mouth goes entirely dry as soon as he raises onto his hands and knees and then some, his sudden exuberance surprising, but not at all dissuaded. Richie should have known Eddie would get into it, should have known that perfect, incredible Eddie could fill any container Richie put down for him.

Now, spread eagled and dripping, Richie has to wonder if there was anything Eddie couldn't best him at. It had to be the sexiest thing Richie had ever seen, the hottest thing he had ever experienced. Sure, maybe this was his first genuine attempt at pulling anything like this, but he couldn't imagine there ever being a sexier moment than this one right here-- he could feel Eddie clenching and bearing down on him, could feel the tremors in his hips and the clenching of his ass as Eddie forces himself to gather some semblance of control in the face of Richie's relentless, unyielding tongue. 

Richie nods against Eddie's ass before he realizes the smaller boy can't see him, and he pulls away from his ass with a lewd, filthy pop, "Fuck.... yes I can, dude," Richie agrees, as his hand raises from Eddie's neck to curl around his cock. This time he has the opportunity to savor the moment, and that's exactly what he does. Richie takes the time to properly feel the weight of his cock in his palm, luxuriating in the muscle-deep twitching that hits all the way into Eddie's balls, which tighten and clench with every twist of Richie's hand. This, at least, he had practice with-- and tons of it, using his personal favorite techniques even as he begins to milk Eddie dry.

Eddie doesn't last very long once Richie starts using his hand and mouth in tandem. The combination of sensations, the hot wet pressure of his tongue against his hole and the heavy hard drag of his palm and fingers around his cock work together to take him apart in moments. He twists again at the waist to reach behind him and grab Richie's hair, and his voice escalates in pitch as he nears his climax. For a brief moment he thinks that he's about to make a mess of Richie's blanket-- but the thought is blown out of his head when Richie's hand twists in the perfect way around him, and he cums with a sob. 

It saws out of him, wrenching and painful in his chest, dry and achy and deep in his stomach as he spills through Richie's fingers for a second time. He's never cum twice in one night before, the few scant experiences he's had with masturbation have always been a quick one-and-done moment of shame he eked out usually in the shower, but twice? The second one feels even more intense than the first, and even his arm can't support him anymore. He drops down to his shoulder, his hand still firmly in Richie's hair as he bucks back against his mouth riding his face until he's so sore that he has to physically push Richie away, because he was content to just keep going and going. 

Eddie has to take a few seconds to try and catch his breath, but his throat still feels tight and painful, so he grabs for his fanny pack as he sits up with his back to Richie, and takes a deep puff, holding it for a few seconds and then exhaling with a cough. It might have been concerning if he didn't immediately start laughing right after. 

" _Fuck_ , dude..." he coughs again, and takes another puff, turning around to face the other boy, careful to miss the stain he'd left on the fabric. "You're so-- fucking nasty. That was _awesome_."

Richie was looking at Eddie like he was the fucking moon. His eyes were wide and his face soft and adoring, watching him wheeze and piece himself back together after an impressive demonstration from Richie, himself-- not that he would ever pat himself on the back, but he couldn't help but feel proud of himself for having worked Eddie over so well. Asthma was nothing to take lightly, of course.... but maybe this one instance could do with a bit of brevity.

"Nasty? Me?" Richie repeats, leaning back onto his heels and putting his hand to his chest, astonishment and shock on his face in clearly a parody of real emotion. Unable to hold it, Richie breaks into bright, loud laughter, expecting the glare Eddie gives him and not disappointed in the slightest-- although the impact was undercut a little in severity, considering he'd just had his entire tongue up Eddie's ass and Eddie had absolutely fucking _loved_ having it there. "Good you liked it, though. Girls go crazy for it, so I knew you would, too--" Richie can't help but needle just a bit, especially ironic because Richie didn't know a damn thing about girls going crazy for getting their ass licked. 

For Richie, that was enough. Although he's still hard and heavy beneath the thick seam of his fly, Richie knew better than anyone that the urgency of his... predicament would go down with time. Having Eddie pinned beneath him and coming through his fingers was reward enough for Richie, he didn't need any reciprocation or notice at all; In fact, he preferred being able to just give, give, give. 

So casual is Richie about being rock fucking hard that he leans back, trying for a picture of casual relaxation and succeeding mostly-- but his boner gives him away. It always does, "Maybe when you catch your breath we can go for a round three. I really want to see if I can get you to cum three times. I bet I can, right?" Richie asks, grinning down at Eddie, clearly just waiting for the signal before he lunges for him.

"Shut up," Eddie says stupidly. His eyes are drawn to the bulge in Richie's jeans and he remembers all over again that he's yet to even touch his friend, so he reaches out to grab him by the shoulders and push, shoving him over until his back hits the ground, and Eddie straddles his lap. 

Slotting himself right over Richie's cock through his jeans, he grinds his hips down in hard circles, his hands still braced on Richie's shoulders so his gold cross dangles sinfully from his neck between them. Still in nothing but his socks and sneakers, he kind of _feels_ like a porn star on top of Richie like this. He drags his ass across Richie's cock without even bothering to open his jeans, getting his friend's own saliva soaked into the denim as he grinds his sensitive hole against the rough fabric. 

"Oh shit..." he grimaces in pleasure, his head tipped back slightly, an expression of agonized bliss pinching his features. He feels too oversensitive, the drag of fabric against him prickles all the way up his spine little little needles, but still he continues, luxuriating in the feeling as he bounces and grinds on top of Richie. The other boy is struck stupid under him, so he grabs his wrists and guides his hands to hold Eddie by his (small, so small) waist, and holds his hands there as he sits straight upright and rocks his hips in quicker, tighter little circles. 

He's confident that if, or more likely _when_ it comes down to it, he'll actually be able to ride Richie like this, and he gives an almost mournful moan over the fact that he hadn't thought ahead to bring any kind of supplies. They need a condom for that sort of thing, right? To keep from getting AIDS? That's what they said in health class, anyway.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck-- shit-- holy _shit_ \-- what the fuck? What the _fuck_ \--" Richie's mind, as had become commonplace wherever Eddie giving him pleasure was concerned, had gone absolutely slack and dumb. He couldn't finish a thought. He couldn't even think in full sentences. 1000 things raise in him almost immediately, and it's all drowned out by the fact that if he squeezes just a little bit, he can basically get his fingers to touch one another around Eddie's waist.

He was so fucking _small_. So fucking perfect. Richie's head tips forward as he pulls his face into what could be a grimace or a moan, and it takes everything it can for Richie not to thrust his hips forward and tip Eddie off of him and onto the ground. He wants nothing more than to do that, to strike home again and again, to thrust himself to completion on top of Eddie where he belonged, where the smaller boy _belonged_.

This? This was practically inhumane. Mouth slack, Richie watches Eddie with open-faced awe, as those hips swipe quick, fast rolls down against his cock, which strains and jerks to meet him. Richie wonders if he can feel the effect he's having. Richie wonders if Eddie could. The hands on Eddie's hips tighten and begin to pull Eddie down in time, actively guiding Eddie's hips, slotting the heavy bulge of his jeans into his tight ass and rutting like an animal in heat, "Fuckshit-- Eddie- Eddie, Eds, Ed, man-- fuck, I'm gonna--- you're gonna make me--"

And it isn't too far to guess what Eddie 'makes' Richie do, as a second later he cums probably harder than he ever has in his life, directly into his pants. Richie leans forward, pulling Eddie down and burying his face in the other boy's neck, muffling his moan. His entire cock jerks with a motion that's felt and repeated through his thighs, his arms, his abdomen, his chest-- Richie's entire body clenching, then unclenching as he spills into his own pants and is left to jerk stupidly with the occasional, slowing thrust from Eddie, speechless.

Eddie waits for him to go completely slack, sagging down to the ground with his limbs all splayed out, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants, his own expression frozen in a state of awe. Watching his friend come apart like that, with his face in full view, his head tipped back and mouth open-- he thinks Richie really _could_ get him to cum a third time, if he put his mind to it, because just seeing him like that has his dick giving a weak little twitch. 

Then he smiles, and then all-out grins, and he leans out over Richie, planting his hands on the carpet before asking, "Who's creaming their jeans now, huh?"

It takes Richie's brain a second to reboot, and it isn't until his vision is full of Eddie that he even remembers where he is or who he is or what had just happened. Eddie's voice cuts through the fog and the musk, makes Richie's skin tingle and prickle as Eddie covers his body with his own much smaller one. "Yeah..." Richie says, absolutely fucking stupid, clearly not even close to comprehending what Eddie had just said and agreeing just to agree.

Until he realizes what the jeer was, and the words creaming their jeans comes into harsh relief, "Wait--" Richie groans, "Fuck you, man!" He says all at once, and weakly raises his arm to knock Eddie aside, a surge of adrenaline making his bones buzz as he tangles their legs together and pulls Eddie to the ground with him, not trying to roll on top of him, but rather going into pinch at is bare hips, his ass, "You fucking cheated, at least I had the decency to pull you out. You know how much shit my mom's gonna give me for this?" Again.

Eddie yelps as he's dragged down to the blanket, but all he can do is laugh as he lifts his legs away from the spot he'd left on the fabric, himself. "Dude, your mom was gonna kill you anyway, you let me jizz all over your stupid blanket!"

He feels a shiver go through him as the heat of sex fades, and leaves him a little chilled in the cool arcade, so he rolls over to grab for his shirt, pulling it down over his head. He checks his watch, and to his surprise finds it already approaching four in the morning. He's both shocked and not surprised at all to find that he and Richie had just wiled away two and a half hours and some change. 

"We really gotta get back," he says, grabbing his briefs and wiggling them up his hips. "My mom wakes up earlier on weekdays."

Richie groans low under his breath, raising an arm to drape across his eyes, as if willing the idea of leaving to Not Exist, "Just get caught and tell your mom she can suck a dick," He grumbles sourly, "Maybe if she did she wouldn't be so pissed if she found out you were getting some action." He doesn't mention that them hooking up would be very different than his mother. If Eddie was caught going out with a girl, maybe she could be reasoned with eventually.

If Eddie was caught with Richie? Well. Not so much.

Eventually he manages to get himself to his feet, although it takes some concerted effort. Tugging on his jeans at the very large wet spot smeared against his fly, Richie wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant stickiness and tries to rearrange himself through his jeans with mixed success. He then makes quick work of packing up the bag, and feels a little thrill when he realizes they'd barely touched the alcohol. Eddie wanted to do all that even without getting drunk first. The thought makes Richie grin, and he's still grinning a little stupidly as he shoves the remaining bottles into the duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder, looking warmly at Eddie, proud like he didn't have a puddle of cum cooling inside of his briefs. "Come on," He says, nodding to the door, "Let's go."

Eddie decides to be bold on the ride back and wrap his arms around Richie's neck from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder as the wind streaks through their hair, and again he takes the time to digest what had just happened. This happening twice has to make it more serious, right? More real? His heart hammers in his chest as he realizes he wants this to be as real as Richie will let it be. 

On the grass beneath his open bedroom window, Eddie treats Richie to a slug from a travel-size bottle of mouthwash he has in his fanny pack (because of course he does) but doesn't let him take a mouthful directly from the neck, rather tips it into his open mouth without touching his lips, "so his breath won't smell like ass." It's a joke they both giggle at, and after Richie has swished and spit in the grass, Eddie boldly pecks him on the lips. 

"See you tomorrow," he whispers, and then turns around to make his way back up the drain pipe, his stomach still bursting with butterflies.

Tomorrow, Richie thinks as he stares up at Eddie crawling up the drain pipe, watching until those demonic red shorts are safely tucked away behind the window still left untouched-- and this time, when Eddie turns to watch Richie leaves, he sees him still standing on the grass, waiting for him to check in. Only after Eddie looks back out the window does Richie quietly wave a hand in a silent goodbye, before heading back to his bike.

One more wave to the forlorn Eddie in his window, and Richie is gone down the street, not looking back for fear of seeming like too much of a girl-- but he could feel Eddie's gaze between his shoulder blades, as sharp and hot as any iron he'd put his hand on (and there had been a few).

Richie wonders if there's a way he could convince the crew to go to the movies tomorrow. It was his turn to buy him and Eddie's theatre snacks, and if he was really lucky it might be dark enough for Richie to look at him without anyone else seeing, maybe even touch those bruises he now knew dotted his inner thigh. 

And if not, Richie was sure he could make an excuse to get them into some bushes or something.


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie falls asleep and wakes up the next morning thinking about the same thing, one thought circling around in his head: the way Richie had touched him. Or more specifically, how he hadn't touched _himself_. It's _all_ he can think about through breakfast with his mother, his thoughts faraway with heated speculation. He knows it isn't that Richie doesn't _want_ to be touched, he'd just about started crying when Eddie sat in his lap-- but he didn't _ask_ for it, certainly didn't initiate it. He took it willingly when it was offered, but made no moves to claim any touch himself. 

Which led Eddie to only one conclusion, shocking as it may be. Richie "trashmouth" Tozier is _shy_. Spock once said wisely that if you eliminate all the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, must be true-- and that's got to apply here, too. Even though it sounds absolutely _crazy_ to think of Richie as shy, in any capacity, it's the only thing that makes sense. 

So Eddie decides to make it his personal mission to touch Richie _first_ the next time they're together. In fact, he plans to be the one to initiate, this time, and he even has the perfect excuse.

Luckily, at least, it gets easier to pretend to be normal around him, this time. The losers all get together on their bikes like usual and do a few laps around the block while Eddie stands there dutifully with a stopwatch to time them and declare the winner, since heavy pedaling is never good for his asthma, and he very nearly fails to record the winner, he's so caught up in watching Richie's joyful face as he streaks by the others, the wind blowing his long hair back out of his face. It's a close call between him and Bill, and even though Bill had won by a margin of a single second, when everyone looks to him as the impartial judge, he makes the very biased call in Richie's favor, just to watch him crow and parade around smugly. Sorry, Bill. 

With their bikes on the curb and their backs in the grass of someone's lawn beside the road, an ice cream truck jingles by. Mike offers to buy everyone a popsicle, and as everyone else crowds up to the truck, Eddie grabs Richie by the elbow and holds him back, leaning up on his tiptoes to cup his other hand around his ear. 

"My mom works late tonight," he whispers. "Ditch everyone else and meet me at the quarry at six. Bring a change of underwear."He breaks away from Richie before he has a chance to respond, and picks his bike up off the ground, calling out to the group. "Raincheck on that popsicle, Mike. My mom's getting home early from work today and she wants me home for a scrapbooking session. I'll see you guys later."

He pushes off the curb and stands up on his pedals to quickly zip away, checking his watch as he goes. It's five now, he'll have just enough time to prepare.

There's a few things that Eddie's whisper immediately brings to mind, none of which make operating like a normal, functioning kid very easy. Richie watches Eddie leave with abject astonishment which Stanley takes for angry frustration, nudging Richie and gently reminding him that Eddie would be okay, if anyone could handle Ms. Kaspbrak, it was Eddie-- and while the sentiment was definitely sweet of their mutual friend, it was nowhere fucking close to what he was thinking.

In fact, Richie is so distracted over the course of the next 30 minutes that Bill ends up gently suggesting maybe Richie go home and get some rest. He'd let his popsicle melt all over his hand without so much as touching it, had barely spoken since the race, and his face kept weirdly going red on the neck and ears. Stan suggested he might have heat stroke. Ben didn't say anything, just looked at Richie in that obnoxious, Knowing way he did, sometimes-- not that Richie had noticed even that. 

So he awkwardly accepts the out when it's offered, not even sure what he could have come up with instead that didn't look suspicious so soon after Eddie's departure. Richie even makes a show of walking his bike in the direction of his house instead of riding it, apparently too feeble and week to do much more than trudge along pushing the frame.

Not that it mattered. As soon as he was out of eyeshot of his friends, Richie mounted his bike and immediately took off to his house, pedaling as quick as he could, the tails of his open collared shirt fluttering behind him like a cape. He was no more coherent than he had been with his friends, but at least alone he could freely think about the horrible, wonderful array of things that Eddie had in mind without worrying about schooling his face into a more safe for society expression.

Popping home only long enough to say a quick 'Hello, Goodbye' to his parents and assure them he was eating dinner with one of the gang, Richie takes the stairs two at a time to grab his backpack, moving the soiled blanket from one bag to the other (he still hadn't washed it, or even taken it out of the duffel bag to wash it, his pants having raised too many questions as it was.) 

Richie is one foot out his door before he doubles back and shoves a fresh pair of underwear into the front pocket of the bag. Better safe than sorry, right? And if Eddie said he would need a change of underwear, after last time? Richie was inclined to believe him. 

Loitering until the street lights flick on, signifying about 5:45, Richie heads down the street, taking the long route to the quarry to avoid their friends no doubt still prowling the streets. With most of them on a streetlight based curfew, it would have probably been fine... but just in case, Richie takes his time to arrive to the quarry, pulling up short and tucking his tree behind a thicket of bushes the group frequently used to hide their gear, in case a grumpy upper classman decided they wanted to fuck with some kids. He sees Eddie's bike already stashed there, and Richie's entire body feels like he was dunked in ice, then fire, then back again. 

"Eddie!" Richie calls to the empty quarry, not wanting to be too loud lest he wake up the weird people who hung out around here sometimes. "You around? Where you at?" He wipes his hands on his pants to get the sweat off of his fingers, and waits to get a direction from anywhere.

"Down here!" he hears a faint call respond, and when he comes to the cliff's edge expecting to see him already in the water, he sees him instead down on the little rocky shore at the water's edge. He hadn't even jumped in the water, considering he's still dressed (in full jeans again today, because of those bruises still on his thighs) and he gestures for Richie to use the perilous little footpath that winds down the edge of the cliff. 

He's sporting a full grimace the whole time Richie makes his way down, picking over the rocks and using the wooden stakes someone installed as hand supports, and even so he scrabbles a couple times, making Eddie even hide behind his hands once, until his sneakers hit the ground on the rocky shore, and Eddie immediately comes up to him, brushing dust and debris out of his hair and off his shoulders. 

"Did anyone follow you?" he asks, fussing with Richie's collar and straightening his glasses, as if he needs to be presentable for whatever Eddie had planned.

Richie leans away from the fussing for no other reason than he likes to be difficult, as much as he arguably loves Eddie's hands on him. Finally raising a hand, he flicks at Eddie's hands at his collar and pulling at his hair, "No one followed me, man, alright? Knock it off, would you?" For all the heat of Richie's words, though, he didn't make too much of an effort to actually shoo Eddie away, nor did he try to step too far away and actually risk leaving Eddie's fussing proximity. As usual, Richie was more bark than bite.

"Last I heard, they were going to go to Bill's to hang out and eat, so we're set... now what's with all the secrecy, man?" It's Richie's turn to lean forward and grill Eddie a little, advancing on him with a pleased little grin, "Sneak out twice and suddenly you're _lying_ to our friends? I should let you rub off on me more often," Richie looks full-blown smug then, practically simpering with it.

"Shut up," Eddie shoves at Richie's chest. "You want me to tell them the _truth?"_

He does it both to drive home his point, but also because Richie getting up in his space still flusters him to the point he can barely manage a full thought in his head, and he just can't have that-- not now. He's here specifically to touch Richie, if his brain just shorts out again with his proximity, then he'll just shut off and let Richie have his way with him, again.

Richie laughs brightly and grabs at Eddie's hands as they shove him, catching them with his own and bringing them to his lips in what was arguably the most romantic gesture since they'd started.... whatever this was. A moment of sentimentality, of sincerity, amongst a hundred other excuses for sentimentality-- and the look in Richie's eye is really all Eddie needs to see the honesty in the gesture.

And all at once, it becomes too real. All at once, Richie seems to realize the look he's giving his best friend, the warmth blossoming deep in his chest that is in no way unfamiliar, but has still been unspoken. It'll remain that way if society has anything to say about it. If the world does. 

"So uh, what'd you have planned, dude? I'm not seriously going to need a spare set of underwear, am I? 'Cause I'll start having you do my own laundry at this rate," He drops Eddie's hands, replaces them with his own hair as his fingers rake through dark curls as a self-placating measure more than anything else. A distraction in the face of too much left unsaid.

"That's just cause I wanna go swimming after," Eddie says, although he can't bring it in him to say after _what_. He's still too nervous, stupidly still afraid of rejection, similarly fearing like Richie that somewhere along the way he's going to hit the line without realizing he was even approaching it, and everything will come crashing to a halt. He puts his hands back on Richie's chest, and leans up on his tiptoes to give him just the graze of a kiss across his lips, and it makes his heart pound just as hard as it had the first time he kissed him.

The breath leaves Richie's nose with one heavy pant at the kiss, and Richie quickly looks along the rock line at the top of the quarry, then down the beach, across the forest. There were so many places people could be without them even realizing it, so many ways for them to be seen by anyone. Sure it was dinner and most kids were home, but wouldn't that mean only the worst ones were still out? 

But Christ did he want to lean into the kiss. He actually does, shifting forward just a bit to take Eddie by the elbows and keep him close, but not daring to kiss him again, "You're not nervous?" He asks softly, tentatively. Richie can't push if Eddie is scared, won't put Eddie in danger before all else, even if his heart has lurched somewhere into his throat and is now beating out a steady, unrelenting pulse.

"Terrified," Eddie answers, his voice trembling in his throat, as he grabs the bottom of Richie's shirt. "But I want to try something, and this is the best place for it. It's secluded here, nobody comes here but us, especially this time of day. The water starts getting cold around this time, it'll just be the two of us."

He pauses, swallowing hard. "But if-- if you don't want to--"

"Shut up." 

It's all Richie needs to hear before closing the space between them in a kiss he's wanted since Eddie dared whisper in his ear. It's not hungry or desperate, but the gentle sort of kiss shared between lovers who had been apart for too long, although in this case they'd only been apart for maybe an hour, closer to 45 minutes. 

He pulls away after only a moment, smiling down at Eddie, looking down at the hands on his shirt, "Is 'you trying something' code for getting me outta my shirt? 'Cause all you had to do was ask," Richie teases warmly, smiling.

"N-- no, that's just-- I wanted to-- nevermind," Eddie can feel his throat closing up with anxiety. Not for what he wants to do, but for the idea that Richie might not like it or want it. He swallows hard. "I-- I want to--" He can't get it out. He's too embarrassed, too afraid of rejection. It somehow feels better if he whispers it, so he arches up onto his tiptoes, cups his hand to Richie's ear, and whispers, "I wanna suck your dick."

Richie's entire body stops moving, and he's about 90% sure he's straight up died and gone to gay heaven, or Hell, whatever the Christians wanted to call it. He can't breathe, can't genuinely articulate a thought, and Richie stares at the spot on the rocks where Eddie had once taken up space, stupid and rendered mute by the words that had just left Eddie shitfucking Kaspbrak's mouth. 

"You-- you-- you want to..." Richie says, sounding like an entirely different person when he does, completely devoid of bravado and swagger, "My-- my--" Quickly he looks at Eddie, nostrils flaring as his chest rises and falls, as close to hyperventilation as he could get without actively wheezing into a paper bag. "You don't have to do that," Richie says very fast, "Don't-- don't think you have to do that, just because I-- last time, you know? It's-- I wanted to, you don't have to, though, really--" 

The unrelenting fear of being a freak makes Richie buzz, the exquisite terror of pushing himself onto the smaller boy, of setting up an expectation he wanted to live up to without wanting it-- his biggest nightmare.

"I know I don't have to," Eddie says as he steps back and drops to his knees, rifling through the fanny pack he'd laid out over a rock. "I want to, dude-- I haven't been able to stop thinking about it for like two days. I don't know if I'll be any good at it-- but I wanna try. You have to let me wash it first, though."

He emerges from the pack holding a travel-size bottle of hand soap, and a wash cloth, giving Richie a very serious look. There's absolutely no getting out of this one, if Richie wants his dick sucked, it's getting washed, end of story.

For once in what was possibly his entire life, Richie looks absolutely fucking speechless, looking down at the boy on his knees in front of him, holding hand soap and a fucking towel like they were talking about how to prevent the common cold in school. There was nothing he could say about this, absolutely no fucking argument he could make. If he was a predator, would he really be sitting here getting criticized on his dick hygiene by the guy who'd asked to suck it in the first place?

"I _wash my dick_ , dude," Richie manages to at least sound a little defensive when he says it, a little indignant at the implication, but there's not much spine to it. He speaks again, quieter now, "You really want to?" He asks, as if afraid Eddie will change his mind, "I've-- I've never actually.... you know," He admits, not much of a surprise.

"I haven't sucked a dick either, if you can believe it," Eddie jokes, and sets the supplies down to reach for the front of Richie's jeans, pulling them open, tugging them down his thighs along with his underwear. And then he's face to face with Richie's dick. It's a surreal experience... the only time he'd seen it was back at the lake, and he'd been so drunk at the time he couldn't even remember what it looked like, really. It wasn't all that different from his own-- bigger, even soft, but just a normal dick otherwise. "Sit down."

He pushes Richie to sit down on a rock that puts him at a good height for Eddie, who pulls out a bottle of water from his fanny pack, too, and uses it to wet the cloth. Like hell he would just use the dirty quarry water, after all. Then he squeezes a bit of hand soap into his palm, and wraps it around Richie's dick. 

Glancing up at his friend's face to gauge his reaction, he starts to work up a lather, massaging his hand around Richie's cock. This is as much for pleasure as it is for cleaning, so he doesn't rush it, taking his time dragging the soap over his length. He even dips low enough to get his balls, just in case he decides to get bold enough to venture while he's using his mouth. He gets his second hand involved, laying the cloth over his own shoulder where the water seeps into his shirt, but he doesn't care. His eyes are focused on Richie's face as both of his hands stroke over his cock, pulling and squeezing, experimenting with both pressure and speed as the soap works up into a velvety white foam.

"I-It, uh-- careful," Richie says, clearly trying to scrape together what was left of his dignity to form a complete thought and keep at least some of his reputation intact, "It grows." It almost sounds like a threat, like his dick was a living thing, but with how much Richie had talked up his own dick size, maybe it was obligatory at this point. After all, the dick currently in Eddie's hand wasn't much to write home about, just a normal dick, all things considered.

Leaning back on his hands, Richie's hands ball into white-knuckled fists when they find nothing to grab onto for support, bearing down on himself in the absence of anything sturdier. Mouth open and lips dry, Richie's tongue slips to drag across them even as he takes another ragged breath in, then out, one of the few he seemed to remember to take. He looks awed and astonished, struck completely dumb and watching Eddie with incredulous eyes, wide behind his glasses.

True enough, Richie's dick twitches before too long, blood rushing to the organ and beginning to fill hungrily. It jerks and twitches to life in Eddie's palm, balls tightening even with the smaller boy's determined touch. As Richie's stomach twitches and jerks with his stifled gasps and heavy breaths, his cock does begin to fill out and actually grow, expanding both in weight and length, until he's warm and thick and heavy in Eddie's and, cockhead brilliantly red and shiny through the warm foam, straining into his palms and bobbing when Richie's willpower falters and his hips jerk forward. It only happens twice, though judging from the way his core tightens it wants to happen much more.

"Holy shit, dude," Eddie whispers, watching with wide eyes and rapt attention as Richie's cock just seems to _keep_ growing. What is this, seven inches? Eight? It occurs to him that unlike so many boys their age, they'd never actually indulged in legitimate dick measuring. Eddie hadn't because he didn't want to pass around a ruler held by several hands to touch his private areas that were already so sensitive to bacteria, but everyone had assumed Richie hadn't suggested actual dick measuring because he was lying about being big. There's no lie, here. 

The soap has long worked up into a heavy foam that has more than done its job cleansing his skin of any germs, but Eddie is entranced, now. The way his hands feel sliding over his skin, the way it looks blanketed in suds, even the way he _smells_ , all sharp and musky like a boy past the fruity and floral scent of the soap. Eddie finds his mouth watering as he thinks about getting his mouth around him-- though he doesn't really know how he's going to. He'll figure that part out when he gets there.

There's a mottled pink blush on Richie's face at Eddie's soft declaration of astonishment, and he doesn't quite know what to say about it, so he doesn't say anything at all. He's well aware of what his friends must think about him, well aware of the rolling eyes and the jeering remarks made after a particular goof or two. He can handle it. But when it comes to dick stuff, well-- he genuinely was the most experienced with yanking his chain, probably, except maybe Stanley. 

And he knew damn well his dick was.............. decent. 

"You-- keep that up and I'm not gonna make it to you blowing me, dude," Richie mutters low in his breath. Eddie can see it now, the way Richie's heels dig into the sand beneath them, the tight clenching and unclenching of his thighs, his belly, working its way up even to his shoulders and biceps. Every nerve in his body sparks and lights with adrenaline and anticipation, painful, almost, as he looks down at those little hands around him, Eddie's awed expression-- and he clenches at that, too.

"Sorry, sorry," Eddie murmurs, and drops his hands away. He quickly wipes them off with the wash cloth, and then does so for Richie, too, taking care to drag the cloth over his skin gently so he doesn't chafe him, even though it's incredibly soft. When there's more soap than cloth, he rinses it off with the bottled water, wrings it out, and continues, soaking up soap suds and leaving his skin damp, bare and clean. 

"There we go," he says finally when Richie's skin is glistening and free from any suds. He even grabs and maneuvers his cock around, inspecting it like he's trying to make sure it's up to fucking code, which includes feeling and squeezing Richie's balls to check for any remaining soap. He doesn't want to ruin this whole thing by gagging when he tastes soap, after all.

Even the touch of the towel on his dick makes Richie arch his spine and twitch his hips forward, stuttering helplessly as the soft cotton works over him. Even the cold water directly from the bottle doesn't do anything in deterring how hard Richie is, and when those hands go so far as to hold his balls? Richie half chokes on his own tongue, hunching forward with a deep, guttural groan, "Eddie--" He mutters, sounding like he's in actual, genuine pain, "Ed, you gotta-- If you're gonna, you gotta..." 

On the rock, his clenched hands tremble very faintly, and he seems just a minute or two away from vibrating entirely out of his skin, overwhelmed by the amount of attention, and just how little he's giving in return.

"Okay," Eddie nods, and then drops his eyes from Richie to look at his cock instead. He's never been this close to one before, and now that it's just inches from his face, he takes a moment to explore. He pinches the head to watch it warp slightly under his fingers, bright red and silky smooth, and he spreads the hole in the tip with two fingers just to watch the muscle twitch and try to close. He pins it upright to Richie's belly and traces the veins with his fingers, exploring every dip and groove and bulge meticulously, leaving no inch untouched or undiscovered. 

Finally, when Richie has calmed enough that Eddie isn't worried he'll cum the second he gets his mouth on him, the smaller boy leans in just for a lick, at first. He drags his tongue over his cockhead like one might lick at an ice cream cone, just a flat stripe over the tip. He tastes like salt and musk, with the sharp sting of soap cutting through, but it's far from unbearable. In fact he finds the antiseptic burn of soap to be quite comforting as he leans in to properly open and then seal his lips around Richie's cockhead and suck.  
  
At first it's unbearable. Eddie's careful exploration makes Richie feel like he's walking on a tight rope, a horrible half-falling feeling that he can't control. All he can do is balance on the precipice of disaster, wanting nothing more than to make it all the way to the other side or fall off and end his misery: In this instance, falling off the side would be cumming right in Eddie's face while he's looking at him like a science project, and making it to the other side would be... what? Getting a blowjob? 

The thought goes right to his dick. How many times had Richie talked about getting head, fucking girls, jerking himself off? How many times had that very same diatribe earned him sneers of disgust and frustration from his friends? And now here he was, on the edge of getting everything he had said--

And just like that, it's done. Eddie's tentative lick had been mind blowing in itself, the feeling enough to make Richie gag and go slack-- but when it's quickly followed by more of his tongue, then the warm, plush velvet of his lips around his head? Richie couldn't even stand it, he yelps. Quickly he looks down, and with wide blue eyes he takes in the sight of Eddie between his spread legs, with his mouth full of Richie's cock. It was no small task. Richie couldn't help but stare openly at the way those plush, soft lips stretch around his head, glistening with spit, "Holy shit-- hoooooo-ly shit, Eddie, y-you're really-- you really are--" 

Scrabbling for purchase on the rock and finding none, Richie's hands come down heavily on Eddie's shoulders, pinning him in place and digging into his muscle, fingers tight and hopefully not too bruising.

Eddie chances a glance up towards Richie and feels a surge of pride at the look he's managed to put on his friend's face, but he only basks in it for a moment. He closes his eyes again and focuses on the task, slurping slightly in order to keep from drooling as he pushes forward a little deeper. The glide of skin over his tongue is sublime, it's no wonder Richie wanted to lick and suck his thighs so much-- the texture is so soft and silky. He only manages to take a couple more inches for now, the head approaching the back of his throat, and he can already feel himself start to gag, so he pulls back up and off. 

Stroking his hand down from the head, he drags his own saliva over Richie's length, and then squeezes around the base with one hand, and grabs his balls with the other just to feel the way they clench up when he fits his mouth back over the tip and works a little deeper still. He doesn't know if he'll be able to take him all the way, but he knows that "deep-throating" is supposed to be really sexy, so he wants to _try_. 

For now though, just letting Richie's cock brush the back of his throat makes him gag loudly, and he pulls back with a shudder. The feeling really gut-punched him in a good way, but he's embarrassed by it too, and he glances sheepishly up at Richie with a quiet, "Sorry, that wasn't very sexy--"

"Are-- are you okay?" Richie's immediate concern after seeing Eddie gag is, of course, for Eddie-- although it was with a sick sort of thrill, a depraved feeling spreading through his lower gut and striking deep into his chest when he realizes that he'd actually really _liked_ the feeling of Eddie gagging around him. His mouth and throat were already too much too handle, too soft, too wet, too warm for comprehension; but when the walls of that little throat had clamped down around his cock, it left Richie aghast and without words. Nothing new, but the noise that had left him in time with it certainly had been, something between a groan and a moan, something animalistic and carnal, ripped straight out of his gut.

So it's fortunate that Richie still has the mental capacity to care about Eddie, or perhaps it simply speaks to how much the smaller boy means to him, truly. It's a lot, that's for damn sure, and Richie can't stand the thought of hurting him with his stupid, giant dick, even if it had felt amazing.

Rolling his eyes into the back of his head, Richie's head tips back to look at the sky through heavy-lidded eyes, taking the moment to suck in steadying breaths, to prime himself for a continuation of before. That is, if Eddie hadn't gotten too nervous to continue. If he had, Richie couldn't even be mad. Three seconds of a blowjob was infinitely better than none, and now that Richie knew what they felt like he was pretty sure he could recreate it faithfully in his imagination, including the image of Eddie on his knees, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, lips wet with his spit.

"I'm fine," Eddie says, nodding. "I'm gonna try again. When I get deep enough to gag can you-- can you push on my head a little bit? I wanna try to go a little bit further but I think I'll try to pull back on reflex, so I'm gonna need your help."

Without waiting for Richie to verbally agree, he closes his mouth back over his cock and pushes down deep, as deep as he can get on his own. He feels it hit the back of his throat and gags again, pulls back up just an inch or so, and then pushes deep once more, flicking his dark eyes up to Richie's face to give him the go-ahead.

It feels absolutely wrong. This is what they were talking about, surely, when they talked about predators, right? This was it. This was the moment. Eddie looking up at him like he was the world, asking him to push him-- and Richie, depraved fucking animal he is, he does.

One large hand tentatively reaches out like he's afraid that copper-brown swath of hair will bite him, and finally settles amongst the well-groomed pompadour. His fingers clench, nails scraping against Eddie's scalp, and as soon as those eyes flick up at him expectantly, Richie does as he's told-- the fingers tighten in Eddie's hair, gathering a healthy fist full, and when Eddie tries to pull away, Richie not only doesn't let him, but he pushes him down further, watching with reverence as Eddie's eyes flutter shut,his cheeks hollow, and Richie's cock disappears down his throat, into that tight, twitching, burning and clenching tunnel that has Richie yelping again with pleasure and half-crying, "Holy shit, Eddie--!"

It's Eddies fault, really, for not specifying how deep he wanted Richie to push him. He could have specified a couple inches, but he hadn't thought to-- so he only has himself to blame when Richie pushes him _all the way down_. He didn't think it could fit, he thought there would be no way he could fit it all the way, but then Richie's hips twitch up involuntarily and close the gap between Eddie's nose and his stomach, and all Eddie can do is gag. 

His eyes roll back slightly, his throat flexing around the length, and he realizes all at once how fucking _good_ this feels. His throat feels tight and full, achy in the way a muscle does during a workout, and the only downside is that he can't breathe at all with his esophagus entirely full of cock. His capacity for holding his breath isn't as good as someone his age should be, with his asthma severely restricting his ability to breathe, so he can only hold it for a couple seconds before he gives Richie's thigh a couple frantic taps. 

Luckily Richie gets the message and helps him pull off in a hurry, and Eddie immediately starts coughing. It's a deep, barking noise from his chest, and he drools right down his chin as he shivers through an intense sensation of pride and arousal and just a little bit of disgust with himself for how fucking hard it made him to get choked by a dick, but he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grabs his fanny pack to fetch his inhaler. He gives it a shake and takes a deep inhale, holding it for a few seconds so the medicine has time to work, expanding his lung capacity and oxygen intake-- and then takes another puff for good measure to make extra sure he'll be able to hold his breath longer this time, and then grabs Richie's dick again. 

"Okay, again," he nods, his voice absolutely shattered. "I'll do better this time." And he takes Richie deeper than before on his own this time, pushing just past the back of his throat.

There's definitely some form of argument preparing itself in the back of Richie's throat as he sees the toll his action has on Eddie. This was the kid who couldn't even race bikes without concern over his asthma. This was the kid who kept his inhaler on a rock by the water when they went swimming on the off chance he overexerts himself doing the fucking freestyle. And here he was, flush faced, red, and with a glassy look in his eye that Richie had otherwise only seen when his face had been buried in his ass.

It happens again before Richie can think to prepare himself or suggest they move on, and when Eddie takes him so far on his own, he yowls at the overstimulation. His fingers, still buried in Eddie's hair, tighten once more, and though he doesn't push Eddie down nearly as strongly, he gets a reproachful look from the boy in question and does as he's told, pushing Eddie down the rest of the way and helping him bury himself on Richie's cock. A sight to behold, Richie can only stare in abject wonder and astonishment, shoulders hunched to his ears as it seems to take all the effort he had in his soul not to curl around Eddie completely.

Is it just Richie's imagination, or can he see his cock in Eddie's throat? It might have been a trick of the light, an illusion cast by the rapidly-approaching sunset that casts the entire quarry in bright orange light. It might have been a stripe from a tree or a glint thrown off of the water's surface-- but Richie's hips take advantage of his distraction and buck forward again, hungry and impulsive, and he can definitely see it then; a bulge in Eddie's throat, like he'd grown an adam's apple overnight, but this one moving in time with Richie's hips.

This time it's Richie that pulls Eddie away quickly, the immediate gut-check of that sight enough to make him worried, "Holy shit-- holy _fuck_ , Eddie," Richie says breathlessly and mindlessly, the hand in his hair shaking with the effort to keep him upright. The glistening of his lips is so distracting. "You-- it was so _deep_ , you- you--" More fragments, evidence of Richie's absolute devastation of a brain right now. "I'm gonna...fucking-- lose it, man. Where-- where should I--?" It was an excuse to catch his breath and check in, but a valid concern. He had a feeling Eddie wouldn't be too stoked to get a throat full of cum without Richie at least asking, first.

That's a good question, Eddie realizes. He'd like to say in his mouth, since he knows that's the "right" answer, but he doesn't actually know what it tastes or feels like, and the last thing he wants is to make Richie feel bad by suddenly gagging or worse, throwing up, in case he hates it. 

So through the coughing and one more puff of his emergency inhaler, Eddie reaches back over his head and grabs the collar of his shirt, tugging it up and off over his head, tossing it onto a clean-ish rock. "Do it on my chest," he says, and then lifts Richie's cock again to go in for another swallow. Every time he tries he manages to get just a little farther on his own, but he doesn't aim to deep-throat this time, he just wants to take him in as deep as he can. He gets comfortably to the halfway point, just a couple inches in his throat before it makes his eyes water, and then fits his hand around the bottom half of Richie's cock to hold it upright and mark the point he can make it to easily, and he starts to bob his head in earnest. 

He pays attention to the way it feels, the pressure of it entering his throat, the glide of Richie's skin against his tongue, the way it pulses in his mouth and the way his jaw aches slightly-- it culminates in a massively erotic experience that has him hard as granite inside his jeans, his own cock bulging against the fly, untouched and ignored just like how Richie had done for him a few times now.

It's far too much for Richie to even watch. The sight of Eddie prone beneath him, his cock vanishing into those perfect lips, that perfect mouth, over and over again-- By now his cock has a healthy sheen of saliva, thick and heavy from deep in the back of Eddie's throat, and the smaller boy's had moves easily as he pumps the base where his mouth doesn't wander, a wet, slick sucking sound filling the space around them and going right to Richie's dick, which twitches and jerks in Eddie's hand. 

At least he doesn't have to worry about hurting him. The hand on Eddie's hair has turned into more of a guiding force than a push, raising and lowering his head to help encourage his pace, even while Richie tips his head back and groans low from deep in his chest. His legs fall open wider, fully disheveled and destroyed on the rock where he'd been so crudely placed before this torment, "Eddie-- fuck, Eds, _fuck_ \-- I'm gonna-- I'm gonna--" His voice gets high and tight, cut off at the neck while his entire body rolls. 

Richie's hand tightens again, his body goes stiff, and with a few final desperate, sporadic thrusts he quickly twists his fingers in Eddie's hair and yanks him off of him with an absolutely filthy pop, just in time for him to cum across Eddie's bare chest and neck. Thick white stripes spurt from the vibrant red head of Richie's cock as his entire length jerks and twitches in his hand with the force of it, sending Richie reeling with a shout of Eddie's name that breaks on the second syllable, his voice canting into the high-pitched, squeaky range for a second.

And then he collapses back on the rock, boneless, spineless and dumb, ignoring whatever pain collapsing on a rock causes in lieu of clenching his fingers in Eddie's hair, just to feel the boy against him. After gasping for air for a minute, Richie manages to speak again with great effort, "Holy _shit_ ," he says, and that's really all he needs to say.

Eddie is content to just sit on his feet and watch Richie fall apart. He watches his thighs twitch and his face scrunch up with pleasure, watches the way his cock bobs with every hard muscle contraction that sends his seed splashing over Eddie's chest, and rolling down in sticky strands towards his stomach. 

"Holy shit," Eddie agrees, and rests his hands on Richie's thighs for a moment, massaging the trembling muscles before curiosity overtakes him, and he runs one fingers through the mess on his chest, collecting some of Richie's spunk on his fingertip. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he sticks his finger in his mouth for a taste. It's a little salty, a little musky, kind of reminds him of snot-- but it's not unbearable. He thinks that next time for sure he could take it in the mouth-- or at least, he knows he wants to try. He grabs the same wash cloth from before, wrings it out and rinses it with fresh water so he can start wiping off his chest, and then he takes a swig directly from the bottle, handing it out to the still-recovering Richie with a curt, "You should rehydrate."

"I should what?" Richie's voice sounds far away and distant, like he was talking from miles away, at the bottom of a well, long since covered in plywood-- not like he was talking directly next to Eddie. To be fair, though, his expression at least matched. Richie stared stupidly up at the sky from where he had laid down on the rock, boneless and stupid, and he was happy to enjoy the lazy pass of clouds over the orange-purple-blue color swath as it showed itself to him like a beautiful painting. It was nice to look at. It looked about as hazy as his entire body felt, and that, too, was nice.

Only when Eddie nudges him with that accursed water bottle does Richie look up long enough to realize what he'd said, and it takes a massive effort to push himself back upright. His head spins a little bit as he wordlessly takes the bottle when it was offered, ignoring the very clear line in Eddie's chest where he'd clearly sampled some of the goods....

And Jesus pussyfucking Christ if that wasn't enough to make Richie go from flacid to rock hard all over again. He doesn't, thank god, not sure if he could handle a round two when his entire body was still occasionally twitching and jerking from their round one, overstimulated and hypersensitive. "You should... try out for the olympics or something, Eds, you suck the best dick I've ever seen--" He says weakly, taking the water bottle and taking a sloppy drink, water sluicing down his chin and neck as he coughs a little, having drunk too much, too fast.

Eddie takes the water bottle back, grinning at the praise. It puts a flutter in his chest to hear it, from someone he thinks so highly of. From someone he loves. His stomach does a little flip-flop as he thinks the word, even to himself. He doesn't know if he could say it out loud, but it sure is nice to think. 

"You think so?" he asks as he caps the bottle and puts it back in his fanny pack, and then pulls out the mouth wash. "You've never had your dick sucked before though so how would you know?"

He tips the bottle of mouth wash back and empties a mouthful between his teeth, swishing and gargling before spitting on the rocks a foot or so away, just to make sure his mouth won't smell like dick. He doesn't know if his mom would be able to tell what dick smells like-- but it's still not worth a risk. He rinses his mouth with mouthwash often enough that if she smells it on his breath, she won't even question it.

"I don't know how to cook, but I sure as shit know your mom's sucks," Richie says vehemently, regaining a bit of his fire at the soft little challenge. The heel of his hand finds the socket of his eye, and he shoves his glasses up his nose and onto his forehead so he can rub at his eye properly, squinting through the grit of gravel and sand that stuck to his hand, honestly lucky he didn't get any in his eye. That would have been an awful way to end an otherwise very nice evening.

Which, speaking of. Richie slowly turns to focus back on the boy in front of him. He's cleaning himself up like he's done, like he's finished, they can move on... but how the fuck did Eddie just expect Richie to move on from this? It wasn't possible, there was no way it was. And as he looks at him, he can see--Eddie hasn't finished yet.

Glasses dropping back to his nose, Richie adjusts them so they're straight and ignores the smudges taking up a large half of the glass. He could deal with it later. Greedy hands outstretch then, ass raising from the rock so he can snag Eddie by the shoulder and pull him in closer, a little desperate, a lot eager, "You gotta let me fuck with you now," He says, but seems to ask it more today, whereas in the past he'd just been perfectly happy taking without permission, "I want you to try sitting on my face."

"Here?" Eddie flushes, clearing his throat. "I didn't bring a blanket or-- or anything to lay on, it's just rocks. That won't be very comfortable. It-- it's fine, man, I didn't expect anything, I just wanted to-- I planned this, I mean, I just wanted to, you know." He clears his throat again, primly this time, still sitting on the ground in front of Richie.

"No shit you didn't bring a blanket, that rock was hard as shit-- _I_ did," Richie jeers. Quickly, he stuffs himself back in his pants so he wasn't just walking around with his dick out and about, leaning over to grab the duffel bag that had been so callously tossed aside in the rush to get... Richie's dick in his mouth, apparently. His stomach burns hotly at the implications, at Eddie's admission that he'd only done this to suck his dick. That was unbelievably hot, and the nastier part of Richie had to wonder where Eddie drew this new line. The quarry wasn't exactly private, it wasn't exactly dark.... but he'd definitely had Richie's entire dick down his throat and then some, so it couldn't be a super hard line.

Digging through the bag, Richie pulls out the very familiar, still cum-stained blanket from the other night, looking at Eddie a little sheepishly when his previous cum stain was revealed, evidence that Richie had definitely just shoved it in the bag again instead of washing it. "Don't freak out about that, okay," He says warningly, as a preface, "I'm gonna be the one laying on it anyway."

"Oh gross, dude, _nasty_ \--" Eddie says, but he doesn't make a move to stop Richie from folding it up and laying it out, kicking a few rocks away to make a level surface for him to lay on, and he sets the blanket stained-side down. His palms are sweating as he looks around just to double check that they're alone. He'd been confident in his decision to come here at this hour-- and they are still alone, so he knows he made a good choice, but it's still a little bit thrilling and nerve-wracking to be outdoors like this. Just like that first time they made out. 

Still, when Richie lays down on the blanket and pats his chest, he feels a shiver claim his whole body, and he mutters something under his breath as he quickly slips out of his jeans and briefs and leaves them hanging over the rock as he straddles Richie's waist in nothing but his socks and sneakers again, his cock sitting tall and proud on his hips like a flag pole-- and Richie can see all of those marks he left on his thighs, his hips and belly, slightly faded with a couple days to heal but still very prominently purple and red on his pale skin. 

"How do I...?" Eddie asks, shifting his weight on Richie's lap, unsure of how to maneuver himself, looking to the other boy for guidance.

Richie looks up at Eddie with that same adoring awe that he always does, delighted, surprised, and absolutely in love. He takes in the splendor of him, enjoys the weight from him on his chest, and quickly plucks the thick glasses off of his nose to set them on the stone beside him, not daring to jostle Eddie or make him do a thing-- Not when it was his turn to give.

"You just--" He says once he's flat back on the ground, hands going to Eddie's hips. His fingers still fit on the delicate little bruises he'd left there before, from where his hands had grown too eager and just a bit too painful. They aren't now, though. Now they're gentle, careful as Richie lifts Eddie by the hips and guides him further and further up his chest, until his ass is settled right over Richie's face, only held aloft by his hands, "And hold onto my knees if you need support. Don't worry about crushing me, this is basically my dream death, anyway--" Helpfully, Richie raises his knees up. 

Positioned like this, Eddie is completely open to Richie. He's hit with a powerful smack of his scent, thick and earthy and musky and warm, so unequivocally human that it's hard to imagine he lives in a sterile bubble most of the time. Maybe it was because he'd already been turned on for so long, the heat and wet of his cock having slipped between his cheeks and left a plaintive, wet line across him. Richie didn't know. But what he did know was that he smelled good.

So he doesn't wait. Tipping his chin forward, Richie buries his face into the smaller boy's ass, tongue swiping long, flat lines across his slit, nudging those tight, pert balls with his chin as his tongue drags into the sensitive skin of his taint, then across his hole. Richie digs into that spot between balls and furl. He'd done his reading, voraciously, since they'd started whatever this was-- and according to all the filthy mags, this was a place that was gonna drive him wild. Some sort of nerve or something just under the skin.

"Oh shit!" Eddie yelps, and immediately makes good on that suggestion, leaning back to grab Richie's knees so he doesn't topple over. Richie's tongue punches him like a fist to the stomach, every muscle in his body clenching at once as he rolls his hips down into his mouth immediately, any thought of crushing him already blown clear out of his mind. 

Last time he'd thought, surely he'd overblown the way it felt. it was just because it was their first time, he was just misremembering-- but now that Richie's tongue and lips are right back there again, this time he's so overcome that he doesn't even fuss about germs. He'd cleaned himself before they arrived, anyway, just in case. Does that make him a pervert, for expecting Richie might want to touch his ass again? He finds himself kind of hoping so. How exciting it would be, to be a pervert in their friend group, who only ever thought of him as the paranoid hypochondriac. 

"Fuck, oh fuck oh fuck," he babbles, head thrown back, his hands gripping Richie's knees so hard he swears he could shatter them to dust between his fingers, and he fucks himself on Richie's tongue without shame. Maybe he'd just gotten over all his worries last time-- or maybe this time, since he was the one who was pent up, he's just really feeling it now that Richie's finally touching him, but whatever the cause is between the blissful emptiness between his ears, he chases it like he'll never feel alive again otherwise.

And Richie is happy to oblige. Tilting his head and laughing happily into Eddie's ass, the rumbling of his voice makes the rest of him vibrate, too, adding to the already very enthusiastic tongue that's prodding and pushing against that sensitive flat plateau of space between ass and balls. He can't help it-- Every time he jabs there, Eddie practically screams and tries to bury himself onto Richie's face like he could get any closer to him than he already was, and who was Richie to deny Eddie of such obvious pleasure? 

He's happy just to serve. Although Eddie's furious grinding against his face has made his chin and throat soaked with his own saliva, and though his cock is definitely rising to the occasion for a round two, Richie does what he normally does and stoically ignores it to grab at Eddie's pleasure instead, taking advantage of his restless shifting to tilt his head, grab his hips and bury Eddie's ass into his tongue. 

There's no prelude, no teasing, Richie's tongue pushes itself inside Eddie's ass without any fanfare, spearing him open hungrily and predatorily, working him open until he can feel that tight ring of muscle clench and unclench around his tongue, making him moan-- and thus making the rest of him vibrate again, too. Richie only pulls away once to gasp wetly, the heat of is breath clouding on his hole and making Richie blink adoringly at the mess he'd made of his partner, "I'm totally gonna get you to lose it without touching you," He jeers, his voice like gravel at the taunting jeer, openly mocking him and not even allowing him the dignity of a response before he buries his tongue in him again, cheeks going hollow as he sucks into his hole.

"Oh god-- oh god oh god oh fuck, jesus Richie--" Eddie hunches over, and sinks both of his hands into Richie's hair, riding his face like he's trying to take him somewhere. Richie's words had been smug, but they're fucking _right_ , too. Something about this spot he keeps tormenting, right between his hole and the base of his balls, sends pleasure like iron spikes up into his guts every time he rakes his teeth and tongue over it. 

His voice cracks as he moans, breaking off into a nasally squeak as he bounces his hips on his lover's face, riding his tongue and lips with unsteady, trembling rolls. His thighs are shaking, his stomach clenching and trembling, and his cock is leaking into Richie's hair-- again. It's like the other time all over again, he's gonna cum right in Richie's hair if he isn't careful. But then he leans back and braces his hand on the taller boy's hip, and the side of his wrist brushes a growing tent, and he gets an idea. 

"Wait, wait," his other hand releases Richie's hair, and despite the fact that his friend was consumed with hunger and a desire to devour him, he listens dutifully when he's told to wait. Carefully, Eddie slings his leg from over Richie's shoulder, but the other boy doesn't even have time to mourn the loss of his partner before Eddie is repositioning himself backwards over his chest, straddling his shoulders reverse-cowgirl style and putting his ass at the perfect level to keep devouring, while Eddie leans on his elbows around Richie's hips so he can open his jeans again and once more claim his quickly-stiffening cock.

His own dick presses up against Richie's chest as he takes the head of his cock into his mouth, and it's an entirely new experience to try and do this upside down. The texture is different, the way the head sites on his tongue is different, and he has to be more careful not to snag the thick vein on the underside with his upper teeth, but he's a quick study, easily compensating for the length he can't approach thanks to the significant difference in the length of his torso compared to Richie's by stroking the rest of his shaft with both hands.

If he was expecting any sort of reciprocation from Eddie with his face buried in his ass cheeks, it definitely wasn't to be turned around on again (as disappointing as it was to lose the view of his face he'd been cherishing) and then leaned over. For a second, Richie thinks Eddie's entirely given up on staying upright, and he aimed to give himself a pat on the back for his effort, but apparently Eddie was just none too keen on going softly into that dark night, because his fly is undone, his cock pulled out, and for the second time that night Richie loses himself in the plush, velvet slick of Eddie's mouth.

Hungry moans tear from Richie's lips as he buries himself in Eddie to distract himself if nothing else. He wasn't fully hard, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be soon, Eddie's mouth devilishly effective at surging all the blood in his body to the one central point of his cock and keep it there. There's no world where he acted like even somewhat of a novice when it came to sucking dick, and it was hard to rationalize that only an hour or so ago he had pulled out a washcloth and hand soap to make sure Richie wasn't too dirty to touch.

Apparently dirt didn't mean much when a boy had his tongue up your ass. Greedily, Richie's fingers grab onto Eddie's ass for support and spread him open. He actually whimpers as he watches Eddie's hole open and flutter around air, pried apart by his fingers without any of them actually entering him. Richie had been a gentleman so far, not a single finger misplaced or entered into Eddie. It was a boundary he was a little nervous to cross, but fortunately he was in no rush-- just eating his ass like this was fucking amazing.

As if to prove the point (and maybe also for pride, needing Eddie to get off before he even got close) Richie tips his head down to mouth at his perfect little package, lips and tongue soft, wet, and warm as he suckles gently on them, his nose still sharply digging into that soft space between his hole.

Eddie _squeals_ when Richie suddenly sucks on his _balls_ of all things, and it's lucky that the noise is muffled around the other boy's cockhead, or it definitely would have sent some birds flying in alarm. He rides back against Richie's face, grinding against his mouth shallowly and largely ineffectively, but the spirit is there even if Richie has to guide his hips by hand. 

It's a little sloppy on both ends, neither of them experienced enough to be very good at both receiving and giving pleasure at the same time, but what they lack in practice they make up for in enthusiasm in the attempt. Eddie pulls off of Richie's cock, stroking him with both hands as he hangs his head, unable for several moments to even think about sucking him. That's too many steps, too much effort while his stomach is boiling with pleasure, and he needs his mouth free in order to moan openly into the space between their bodies. 

"Fuck, Richie..." he whimpers, his hole clenching involuntarily around Richie's tongue. "C-- can you-- can you put-- a finger in?"

It's something they hadn't talked about yet, but the idea of it has been sitting at the back of Eddie's mind since they started fooling around. He'd assumed it was something queers did because they had no other options, but ever since Richie put his tongue in there the first time, he's starting to think that there might be an actual reason they do it.

There has to be a line somewhere, Richie rationalizes, even as Eddie's desperate plea reaches his ear. Of course he knows what gay men do. He's done it to himself, technically, has fucked himself apart with two fingers and an ample supply of his mom's favorite olive oil. But he also knows without a shadow of a doubt that he's a sinner condemned to Hell before he even matured enough to realize the depth of what that could mean. Eddie, though, Eddie was a good boy. He was a good, WASP boy who went to church and repented and worse cross necklaces and tiny shorts with high socks and sat on his lap and sucked his dick so well Richie could cry and was currently sucking his dick so well Richie could cry and--

Maybe Eddie wasn't as much of a good boy as Richie was worried about. Maybe they could take this leap. 

And with Eddie asking so politely, so desperate and wet like he was sobbing while the rest of his body clenches and releases around Richie's tongue, who was he to argue? Eddie clearly was thinking what he wanted, Richie really hadn't said anything about putting a finger in his ass... 

So the next time Richie pries him apart by the cheeks, Richie breaths a steady, even exhale over his hole, watches it flex around the fresh tickle of warm air, and then presses his fingers forward further into that tight cavern, fingertips brushing against his furl before one passes the barrier already made loose and pliant by saliva and the eager probing of his tongue.

"W-- oh-- _oh_ ," Eddie knew what to expect, sort of. He'd gotten enough medical exams down there to be familiar with what fingers or tubes or any number of other devices felt like inside him. But this is the first time he's ever had anything in his ass in this context, purely for pleasure, and it feels _different_. Richie's finger is long, even if it isn't very thick, and it reaches deeply inside him, deep enough to make Eddie sit up abruptly with a gasp when it sends a shockwave of pleasure up through his belly. 

With one hand still wrapped tightly around Richie's cock, all Eddie can do for several long seconds is just contend with the feeling. His hand pulses weakly around the base of Richie's dick, but that isn't even intentional, it's just the errant twitchings of a boy completely taken out of his element and forced to withstand something completely new. 

"Oh shit--" he whimpers, his hole clenching around that finger tightly, squeezing around his knuckle in full view of Richie's face, giving him a front row seat to the show. His pink furl flutters as Eddie shudders, shallowly rocking back into the touch as he gradually adjusts to it, and starts to pump his hand over Richie's cock again. His confidence swiftly returning, he bends down once more to fit his mouth over Richie's cockhead and suck hard, using both of his hands to stroke over his length one after another, so he's never without the intense pressure of Eddie's wet fingers rolling down over his cock, while the tip grinds tightly between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

It's hard to focus while Eddie is taking his cock with such vigor. Richie was usually the last person to be distracted by his own pleasure, usually the last person to WANT any attention on himself in that regard at all. He made embarrassing faces, he couldn't speak, he couldn't think, he wasn't nearly as charming or smooth or collected-- overall, if you asked Richie, being on the receiving end of pleasure was one of his worst nightmares, something that made him contend with the idea of his imperfections.

That's all well and good and really easy to say, though, when he isn't currently having his cock sucked like Eddie was eating a popsicle on a hot summer day. It's easy to be aloof when it doesn't involve you directly, easier still to play the part of brave, sexless martyr when sex wasn't _currently happening_. But with his finger slowly sinking into Eddie to the final knuckle, it was getting harder and harder to pretend that sex wasn't actually putting itself on the table-- and Richie hadn't even had to ask for it.

Hips rutting forward shallowly and without conscious control, Richie reacts to Eddie's languid strokes even as the boy above him seems to fall apart at the introduction of just one finger. He wasn't even moving yet. When he does, it's to crook his finger inside of the boy and curl upward into those walls. They could use a bit more wet, and Richie doesn't think before he acts. Leaning forward, he actively _spits_ saliva at Eddie's hole, finger pulling out, then pressing back in assisted with a fresh glide of saliva and slick, as Richie twists his finger back and furrows his brow through the roaring between his ears, battling pleasure to help Eddie find his own. That bundle of nerves that he'd hit on the outside was nothing like what it felt like to touch it from the inside. Richie knew that much first hand.

The fact that Richie hocked a loogie directly into his ass probably would have done Eddie in on its own, a fact which will definitely require some thought later on as it goes against nearly all of his other sensibilities when it comes to cleanliness, but it doesn't even have the chance to register after Richie's finger hits a spot inside him. 

Whatever it was he does, whatever magic fucking spell he cast has Eddie spilling instantly across his chest, his mouth popping off the tip of his cock as he covers it with a hand, wailing muffled into his palm to keep his voice from echoing across the entire quarry. He bears down on that finger, all the strength leaving his legs at once, and they fold up under him so he lays belly-down on Richie's body. It's different from other orgasms he's had, it starts from deeper in his body and hits him way harder, spreading out from the point Richie struck up through his belly and down his legs. 

He absolutely would have screamed, had he not covered his mouth, and he death-grips Richie's cock in the hand not occupied with holding back the flood of wails, so tightly it nearly hurts. He isn't thinking about that, he can't think about anything except the absolutely dizzying tidal wave of pleasure that sucker-punches him in the balls and knocks all the wind out of his chest.

It does the job he'd hoped it would, but Richie finds himself locked in a painful embrace across almost every single front. Eddie's thighs close around his neck and shoulders, his hole clamps down around his finger, and his hand turns into a vice around Richie's cock, making the larger boy groan from deep in his gut, a noise he couldn't help even if he wanted to. 

Not that there was much a point to control his own noises when they paled in such comparison to the keening wail barely stifled by Eddie above him. The noise undoes every moment of uncomfortable pressure that he might have felt in that moment, obliterated by the sheer gut-check that Eddie's orgasm wrings out of Richie adoringly. Because he can't help himself, a creature of excess and torment and absolute gluttony, Richie manages to twist his finger just the slightest inch, then press it back into that spot. If Eddie wasn't undone before despite his orgasm, he sure as shit was now. Richie can feel the way Eddie's body convulses under his touch, spasming in a way that could only be instinct and nothing less.

"C-Come on, man--" Richie grunts, voice low as his opposite hand stretches forward to push Eddie's head back toward his cock, "You're the one that wanted to do this, remember? You-- you gotta commit or it's not fair. You're cutting off circulation to my dick--" He tries to keep his voice light and casual. He'd seen the effect giving Richie head had on Eddie firsthand, and could think of no better way to preoccupy his mouth.

Eddie barely has enough time to catch his breath before Richie is pushing his head back down towards his dick, the head smearing pre across his cheek. He knows Richie will keep tormenting him if he stays in the position he's in now, and he doesn't know if he can stand another second of that stimulation against whatever spot it is inside that his lover continues to assault, so he pulls away and swings his knee over Richie's face in order to flip around. 

If Richie was going to complain about being deprived of Eddie, he doesn't have the time because in moments, his jeans are stripped down off his thighs and tosses onto the rocks, and Eddie lies on his belly on the blanket between Richie's spread thighs, hooking his knees over his shoulders to keep him open and vulnerable. He catches a peek at Richie's hole in the process of making himself comfortable, crossing his own ankles and letting them bend at the knee so his feet point skyward, and he makes a note of it to possibly explore later. 

For now, he just fits his mouth back over Richie's cockhead and works his tongue down over him, his eyes closing in blissful concentration. There's the lightest hint of a furrow between his thick brows, and his cheeks hollow slightly as he pulls up, his lashes locked together and striping his cheeks all thick and black. He looks angelic between Richie's thighs-- which is a laughable thought, considering he's currently trying to outdo his previous best and take Richie even deeper without assistance than he could before.

It's unfortunate for them both, then, that Richie is already too sensitive from round one, too pent up from round two, and comes almost as soon as he feels the telltale drag of the head of his cock against the rough roof of Eddie's mouth. It turns into the warm, tight glide of his throat, the muscles in it expanding and contracting around him like a living being all on its own, with deigns on just what it needed Richie to do and what it wanted from him.

Whereas Eddie needed a hand to stifle himself, Richie's never been one for much noise, and when he comes it's with a strangled noise deep in his chest and gut, so hard it almost sounds pained. He curls up from his prone position on the blanket, drawing Eddie further onto his cock as his hips stutter forward, and Richie's hand slams into his hair on instinct, consideration out the window as he buries the smaller boy's head onto his dick and cums down his throat, not asking permission, not warning him, just releasing into Eddie's mouth and directly down his throat.

There's not a chance he can avoid it, Richie's hand tight like a vice, buried into Eddie's hair down to the scalp and unrelenting until he goes boneless for the second time that day. His hand releases painfully, and he lays back onto the blanket panting openly, squinting up at the sky. It takes him a second to realize why everything was so blurry, and he pats the ground beside them stupidly in an effort to find his glasses without success. 

"Hey" Richie mutters, voice hoarse, chest still rising and lowering heavily as he tries to regain his brain back, "Can you... help me find my glasses?" Stupid way to end a show like that, he'd be the first to admit it.

Eddie pulls off as soon as Richie releases him, and actually _burps_ softly behind his fist with a demure 'scuse me' before he crawls up to straddle Richie's hips again and grabbing the glasses a few inches from his scrabbling hand. He carefully threads the stems back over his ears so he can take in the vision of Eddie sitting on top of him, flush-faced with shiny lips and a determined delight gleaming in his eye. 

"That was _really_ good," he declares, bracing his hands on Richie's chest.

"You kidding?" Richie says, and actually manages to grin a little foolishly up at Eddie, toothy and bright, "That was fucking awesome. Who knew you sucked dick like that?" He leans up to curl one thin arm around Eddie's shoulders, pulling him flat to Richie's chest again and choosing to ignore the pooling puddle of cum draped across his chest and torso-- and if he could ignore it, Eddie could too. His shirt was off, he was fine. 

Richie buries his nose in Eddie's shoulder, taking a deep breath. He smells like sweat and sex and salt like an ocean, maybe something from the quarry he was picking up on. "Where'd you get the idea to do that?" Richie asks. He knew where he'd picked up dirty sex stuff, but Eddie wholeheartedly didn't seem like the type.

"Uh..." Eddie feels his ears flush, and then he mutters his answer so quietly into Richie's shoulder that he can't hear what he said, his words muffled against the other boy's skin.

"I'm not an ant, dude, I can't hear you," He laughs as he pulls Eddie away from his shoulder to look at him properly. His glasses were beyond smudged, but he could see a look of embarrassment when he saw one. "Come on, it's okay. I'm not going to rip on you." And how could he, when he's almost guaranteed done worse.

"Last time we were... you know," Eddie clears his throat, somehow managing to be shy despite the fact that he audibly has dick-sucking voice, all hoarse and sticky in his throat. "In the arcade... you joked that I should just let myself get caught by mom and tell her to suck a dick... it just got me thinking, man, I dunno..." he drops his forehead to Richie's shoulder.

Maybe Eddie did have a reason to act embarrassed, because the glint in Richie's eye and the grin immediately twisting onto his face isn't a super sympathetic one. In fact, he looks entirely delighted by the development, sitting up while doing his best not to jostle Eddie from his lap, arms looping loosely around his bare waist, "Figured you'd try it out instead, huh?" Richie croons, sounding insufferably smug. He at least gives Eddie a little squeeze, "Would it make you feel better if I said you're probably like, at least twice as good at it as your mom is. Maybe even three times better."

"Shut up!" Eddie shoves at Richie's face, trying to pry away from him with a noise of disgust, even though he's laughing. He squirms out of his arms and turns around to wade into the water buck ass naked, flicking water towards Richie. "You're so nasty dude."

Before Richie can make a grab for Eddie, he swims further out backwards and out of reach, sending another parting splash in his direction before he dives under the water and swims away. They won't have too long to swim, the sun will be completely set soon and Eddie will have to be home before his mom gets back, and the water will be getting colder by the minute, but they'll savor it while they can. 

They ride side by side home, and while it isn't the same parting as a kiss under the window, the look Eddie gives the other boy as he heads up the drive to his house while Eddie continues on down the street towards his own is nothing short of a promise. It feels like the start of the rest of their lives. 


	4. Chapter 4

That summer is the best Richie's ever remembered, the best in his entire life. He savors every nighttime tryst and every daytime hang out spent trading furtive glances and lingering touches hidden under tables and behind trees with the boy of his dreams. Eddie and Richie had always been close, but the newfound affection between them blossomed whatever they had into something so much more than anything Richie could have ever dreamed, and in times without Eddie he finds himself crossing the Lover's Bridge just to pass the initials he'd carved into the wood anonymously those few years ago, when this seemed like just a fanciful daydream of a stupid, idiotic queer. 

But there's nothing stupid about the way Richie feels about Eddie. The Summer grows cold and school begins its session, and Richie's feelings never wane for the smaller boy even an inch, who does hit a bit of a growth spurt at the end-- but nothing compared to Richie, who hits an awkward 6'2 by August, like he's doing it intentionally to keep Eddie small enough to fit against him in the perfect way they do.

As usual, Richie gets caught up in the AV Club, the public speaking team; nothing notable, a lack of drive and motivation to peak in high school encouraging him to do basically the bare minimum to be involved while taking as much fun out of the clubs as possible. It's enough to give him the freedom of motion he wants to spend time with his friends without his parents constantly breathing down his neck for him to round out his school transcript-- like he was going to college, anyway. It was a scam, and one Richie loudly protested whenever the topic bore its ugly head. You didn't need college to succeed, you needed connections, and frankly Richie would rather not leave Derry with any connections outside of his friends.

So his weekends are free, with excuses. With a sibling involved in football, basketball, ballet, you name it, Richie's lame excuses of 'practice' or 'rehearsal' are met with little more then an exhausted roll of his parents' eyes, and their reluctant acceptance. 

But reluctant acceptance is sure as shit enough for Richie one night, when his parents raise the topic of his youngest sister's debate competition over dinner. A weekend-long affair, it was apparently something that could qualify her for high school credit if she did well enough-- and as an eighth grader, it was probably pretty impressive a feat, not that Richie would know or care one way or another. He said his usual song and dance about being busy, having rehearsal, unable to get out of it, you know how it goes.... but instead of his parents relenting and calling in his aunt from three hours away to watch him for the weekend, this talk has the surprising development of them.... letting him stay home alone.

"--yeah, so, I could totally just jerk it on the living room couch if I wanted to, I don't even have to wear pants. What the fuck will they know!" Richie, throwing a ball at the well-insulated room of their wooden clubhouse, was in the middle of gloating about the newest development to the rest of his gaggle of friends, whom all shared unique faces at the idea of Richie jerking off, "They're gonna give me some money for pizza, so if I get a massive one the first day I could even eat pizza for every meal for like, two days straight. They're leaving Friday night, back Sunday night, it'll be like a mini vacation-- the entire fucking place to myself, you kidding?" 

He wasn't kidding. The fact he'd been going on for about fifteen minutes now was proof enough of that.

"You gotta let us c-c-come over," Bill says as he sits up in the hammock, finally able to pry the spot out of Richie's hands after so many minutes. He's always been a hammock hog. 

"Dude are you crazy?" Eddie says. "You think my mom would let me stay overnight somewhere without adult supervision? She'd have a conniption fit--"

"She doesn't have to know Richie's parents are gone. You've been there so many times over the years, do you really think she'd check?" Stan offers. 

"Maybe if it was anyone else, but Richie? She _hates_ him," Eddie says without bothering to sugar coat it. They all know it's true. Honestly, they're not entirely sure how Eddie is still allowed to hang out with them at all after the melt down his mother had when he broke his arm that summer three years ago, after narrowly escaping Pennywise. He'd never gone into detail about how he managed to talk her down, when they asked he just said he "convinced" her. Most of the rest of them left it at that, but there'd always been curiosity. 

"I don't know if my grandpa would let me either," Mike says with a sigh. "But I could try..."

"Well," Richie is real quick to cut back in before the rest of their friends can chime in with their availability to party at his house, a very real strike of panic spearing through his chest at the idea, "Well, look, actually, I don't know if that's a great idea." When met with the surprised and downright skeptical faces of his friends, Richie quickly pushes on without sparing a glance at Eddie, not daring to make him think it was about him.... because it really wasn't.

Richie catches the ball when it bounces back to him from the wall, and doesn't throw it again. "Think about it, this is the first time they're leaving me alone in my life. If they find so much as a _scuff_ on the kitchen floor they're gonna eat my whole ass for it, and they'll probably never let me stay alone again. Think about the sick parties and hang outs we can have after a couple weeks of them doing this, y'know? They'll learn I can be trusted to not burn the place down, and then maybe if they see a scuff or the couch messed up or something they won't go completely AWOL about it." 

Finally Richie looks at Eddie, glancing at him for confirmation, "Plus, if any of your parents found out mine were gone, you guys know they'd go right to mine and tattle on me for having people over, so even if we were super careful I could still get buried in shit."

"AWOL means absent without leave, idiot," Eddie says, closing the computer magazine he'd been reading. "It refers to soldiers who leave active duty without being allowed."

"Wait, you're serious?" Stan's eyes crinkle, blowing right past Eddie's useless know-it-all correction. "Since when does Richie Tozier follow the rules? Who _are_ you?"

"Aw, let him," Ben grins. "It's cute. He's finally growing up."

"Shut up!" Richie snaps at Ben, throwing the ball at him without any actual malice behind it and hitting him square in the chest. Not hard, considering they were about six feet apart inside an enclosed bunker, but still. 

"He's right, though," Eddie continues. "If my mom did let me go without checking and found out his parents weren't there? Even if I didn't say they were, she goes apeshit even over lies of omission, she says they're just as bad. I'd be _crucified_. I'm lucky I managed to get out of Bible Camp this last summer, but next summer? Forget it, you wouldn't see me at all, I'd just be gone."

"It's not about following the rules, okay? I'm playing the long game. Eventually we're gonna wanna have real parties, not just us hanging out on my couch," Richie says. "We can technically do that whether my parents are home or not. If I throw a party the first chance I get, we'll just fuck it up for when we actually wanna have fun, y'know?"

He crosses his arms and leans against one of the heavy pillars holding the room up, shoving his glasses up his nose as if it made his point more succinct. "Plus, maybe I don't want you guys to come over. Maybe I have plans with Samantha from third period Home Ec and we're gonna be busy," Richie makes a lewd jacking off gesture with his hand, snickering at the immediate rolled-eye reaction he got out of Stan and Bill, as if in unison.

"Fine, killjoy," Bill says. "I hope you and S-s-samantha have fun."

A thought is already brewing in Eddie's head as the topic moves onto other things. He finds himself staring at Richie a few times, so intently that a couple times when Richie glances over at him, he doesn't even look away. He looks at him with slightly squinted eyes, like he's trying to figure something out. If Richie didn't know him better by now, he would think he's jealous about the dumbass Samantha joke, but he's made way too many stupid jokes like that over the last few months they've been fooling around for him to suddenly take issue now. 

When the group splits up around dinner time, Eddie straddles his bike fixing Richie with another wordless look, and then pedals down the forest path, branching off from everyone else to head up his and Richie's street, keeping enough of a lead on him that Richie can't catch up and ask him what the hell his glances were about. 

Eddie returns home and sets his plan in motion. He won't give up an opportunity like this, how often will they have a chance to be together somewhere they're absolutely certain not to be caught? They'd snuck out to the clubhouse in the middle of the night once, which was secluded, but Eddie saw one spider and promptly flipped out-- and anywhere else they go, there's always the lingering fear of getting caught. But alone in a house, behind closed doors, with no chance of anyone walking in or even overhearing them? He's not going to miss this opportunity.

Maybe it's fucked up of him to empty twice the normal dose of his mother's sleeping meds into her alka-seltzer water when she asked for him to fetch it for her, but she had been and continues to attempt to drug him every day for like his whole life, so one night of literally getting a taste of her own medicine won't kill her. Predictably, within twenty minutes of watching TV together with her son, she complains about how sleepy she is, and waddles off to bed as Eddie promises her he'll make dinner for himself. He tucks her in with a kiss on her head and everything, and waits for the sound of snoring to put everything else into motion. 

Over the last few months, there was one line he and Richie had yet to cross. He'd put his fingers and tongue up Eddie's ass, but that was as far as he's gone. Eddie keeps waiting for him to ask, waiting for him to initiate the final step that he's been craving for so many weeks now, but he just won't. Eddie had hoped he would, for the simple fact that there's still that lingering anxiety that Richie won't _want_ it-- but at this point he's stuffed his fingers up Eddie's ass so many times and wrung out so many prostate orgasms from him that if he were to suddenly draw a line now, Eddie would just be pissed. 

He packs a duffel bag with everything they'll need and then some, and checks on his snoring mother one more time before he tosses it out his bedroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe, mounting his bike, and riding down the dark street at ten pm on the dot. Richie's driveway is empty, just like he'd said, but still Eddie hides his bike in the bushes before swinging around to Richie's first-floor bedroom window. He sees him just inside on his bed reading a comic book, and taps on the window with one finger, grinning from ear to ear when the other boy startles and looks up to see him.

Seeing Eddie come to his door was new, but Richie couldn't pretend he didn't feel the immediate, illicit thrill deep in his gut and into his chest. What was Eddie doing here? Was he here to take Richie to the arcade for once, to one of their numerous outings of 'Street Fighter' that their friends had all learned was just for them to play? Was it for another attempt at a rural outing? Or maybe Eddie really _had_ taken the Samantha comment to heart, and was here to prove a point.

None of it seemed to match the impish little gleam in Eddie's eye, though, and when Richie stands-- actively having to stop himself from tugging and plucking at the hem of his shirt or his jeans, since Eddie was right there and was clearly watching him move-- he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose before opening the window, swinging the pane up and leaning over his sill with what looked like a coy little smile, only betrayed by that devilish quirk of his lips that he always seemed to wear when Eddie was around, "What, miss me already?" He teases boldly, "You know, if you wanted to hang out you could've asked, I would've picked you up." 

In truth, Richie liked picking Eddie up. He liked surprising the smaller boy by flashing his light in his room at all hours, and with his parents gone they could have had as much time as they wanted. Hell, Eddie could've even come back to his house and showered, probably, as long as he used his own shampoo and soap-- which he definitely would have.

"Shut up," Eddie says, standing up on his tiptoes to steal a kiss over the sill of the window. His mouth tastes like tooth paste and mouth wash, and his hair is just a little bit damp, betraying the fact that he'd taken a shower before coming over. He's always been clean as long as Richie's known him, but there's a certain kind of promise that comes from him giving himself such a thorough scrub-down before coming over. 

He pushes on Richie's chest then, shoving him back away from the window before Richie has a chance to get too deep into the kiss, and before the other boy can start grabbing stuff to head out the window and join him, Eddie picks up his bag and tosses it through the window, and then slings a thigh over the sill to climb into Richie's bedroom. 

Eddie's been in this room a thousand times, but now that he's here with the intentions he has, with the room dimly lit by a single lamp, he can feel his heart pounding in his throat as he reclaims Richie's mouth, tangling his hands into his hair. He's already turned on, he's been turned on since the fucking shower, and he doesn't want to wait anymore.

A surprised noise leaves Richie's throat, something between an interested hum and an embarrassing squeak as he tips forward into the kiss. His hands immediately find Eddie's jaw and cheeks, cradling his face like something precious as he pulls Eddie flush to his chest. They're on the first floor, his window is open, his light is on-- but his room is on the side, his neighbors always have their blinds closed, and it's not like anyone is peeking into his house, anyway. 

Still, just in case, Richie pulls away momentarily to quickly shove the window closed and flick the thick blinds shut over his window, before turning on his heel to capture Eddie in another kiss-- but not before his eyes take typical stock of his form and find he's wearing those fucking shorts again. 

"Oh, screw you, man," Richie groans before attacking his mouth again. Normally he would pause to consider what he'd said earlier in the clubhouse, to think of the consequences. But surely if it was just Eddie there wasn't much that could go wrong, right? And if his mom and dad came back to his room smelling like sex, well. Admittedly, it wasn't anything a ordinary long weekend at home also didn't bring with just his hand behind a locked door, so Richie was fairly certain they would be understanding, if morally disappointed in him-- and that was nothing new by this point.

Pushing Eddie onto the bed, _his_ bed, Richie climbs on top of him without even a care for the comic crushed and tossed aside like an old newspaper. There was a delicious thrill to doing this in his own bed, in his own house, a kind of pleasure he couldn't have imagined getting to taste-- but here he was, with his thigh shoving its way between Eddie's legs as his body looms heavy above him, covering him like a shield as he shoves his tongue into Eddie's mouth.

Eddie immediately ruts up against Richie's thigh, his hands already skirting up underneath Richie's shirt. He pries him out of his tee shirt, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the fabric over his head and throw it to the ground, and then wedges his thigh out from between Richie's, shifting on his pillow so he can wrap his legs around his waist instead, linking his ankles together behind his knees. 

"Richie--" he gasps into his mouth, the front of his shorts already tented. He'd been sporting a half-chub all the way here, honestly. Wearing these shorts was a risky fucking move. He hadn't worn shorts at all in months, he hadn't even stripped down to his underwear to swim with the rest of their friends ever since he and Richie started fooling around because there's not a day that goes by that he doesn't have some number of hickies and bite marks and bruises all along his inner thighs. Whenever his friends planned a swimming day in the quarry, he would always make a point to wear swim trunks under his jeans, but he was enough of a hypochondriac that their friends never questioned him. Now it was getting cold enough that they weren't swimming anymore anyway. 

Even now, his thighs are a mess of hickies from his groin nearly down to his knees. Some of them are bright red and purple still, fresh from only a couple days ago, and some are so faded and grey they're nearly invisible now, begging to be refreshed by Richie's questing mouth. And he'd just rode all the way from his house to Richie's with all of them on full fucking display in these awful little shorts. It's like he's on-purpose trying to kill Richie.

If it's a trap meant to bait Richie into absolutely demolishing Eddie, it's bait that Richie takes with full aplomb. No sooner does he have Eddie spread out beneath him, curling around him like a house plant finding its favorite beam of sunlight, then Richie moves from his grasp. He wastes no time in beginning his delightful and familiar journey south, a well traversed and well-adored route that they're both familiar with by this point. 

Smoothing soft fingers up Eddie's mangled thigh around his waist, Richie guides his leg further up, unhooking him from around his waist and turning his head to bury his mouth into the soft skin on the side of his knee. Richie tries not to mark his knee too much, knowing better than to stoop so low when they do still have P.E. to worry about-- although with the cooler weather, Eddie would be donning sweatpants in no time at all, and he'd be lucky to have any swath of untouched skin, afterwards. Not that Richie seems to particularly mind, now, his lips making quick work of trailing up his knee to his thigh, slipping further down the bed as his tongue drags over a particularly violent looking bruise, the purple still seemingly developing into yellow and red, fresh from only a few days ago.

And because Richie isn't a saint, and because there has to be _some_ sort of punishment for Eddie's crimes of seduction, it's there that his teeth find home, slotting right over that freshly made, no-doubt stinging bruise and forming a seal with his teeth and his tongue, sucking through his teeth to make the aching muscle bruise anew, capillaries and skin throbbing against his lips.

For once, Eddie doesn't even try to muffle his voice. There's no need, with the house completely empty, and nobody even nearby enough to hear him. He tosses his head back into the pillow and moans loudly, louder than he's ever let himself be before. It would almost sound fake if Eddie wasn't so completely destroyed each and every time Richie goes down on his thighs. 

This time, as he spreads his legs and his shorts ride up between them and into the crack between his cheeks, it treats Richie to the sight that not only had Eddie come pedaling over with all his bruises on full display, but he hadn't even worn briefs under his shorts. He's gone completely commando beneath, and Richie can see the entire outline of his cock as it strains against the red fabric of his shorts. 

" _Fuck_ , Richie..." Eddie whines, his head tipped back on Richie's pillow, his hips canting up into his lover's mouth. He loops his other leg over his shoulder, resting his sneaker on his back as he whines through his nose. Laying on Richie's bed like this he's completely surrounded by his scent, overwhelmed at every angle by the way his bed smells just like him. Kind of sharp, kind of salty, kind of musky, kind of bitter-- he smells like a boy, and Eddie is absolutely luxuriating in it.

Richie glances down the line of mottled, pale skin and can't help but moan as he sees the heavy bulge raising those tiny fucking shorts, enough for Richie to see almost entirely up the leg and _definitely_ enough for him to notice the lack of underwear. "Holy shit, Eddie," he mutters against his skin , "What the _fuck_ got into you?" It's said with nothing but awe, open and obvious for the boy stretched beneath him.

There's no opportunity to really answer, or certainly not an opportunity for Richie to hear whatever Eddie might have to say as an excuse, before the slowly-fading bruises across Eddie's sensitive meat of thigh are calling his name, and Richie can't control himself anymore. Crouching down the rest of the way, Richie's mouth claims the junction of his hip and his thigh again, biting and sucking painful, shameless hickies into the ivory flesh, cheeks hollowing. He seems to intentionally bury his head against Eddie's cock, still straining painfully against the soft cotton of his shorts, grinding his nose and forehead into what he can feel is the soft, tight skin of his balls.

Sucking until he swears he can taste copper, Richie pulls away with an audible pop once he does. He hadn't broken the skin, but there is a spiderweb of red lacing the darkening bruise across his skin, as if Richie would have sucked the blood from his veins without even puncturing him at all, "Fucking shit, Eds," Richie mutters against his skin, working his way up his leg to leave a garter of thick bruises around his leg, following the hemline of those shorts and leaving not an inch unmarred.

"I just-- I wanted-- I-- oh shit--" Eddie can't get a complete thought out, a dark spot forming on the fabric of his shorts as he spills pre liberally into them, panting harshly. He never would have assumed he would be one to get turned on by hickies before, in fact he'd always thought they looked distasteful when he saw them on other people's necks in the school hall. But ever since Richie started marking him, he's been touching himself a lot more often in the shower when he looks down and sees them on his thighs and hips. 

Really, he's been touching himself a lot more often in general, ever since he and Richie started fooling around. His thoughts are constantly occupied by the other boy, by his mouth and hands and the idea of them on him. He's hard in his bed nearly every night, and stuffs tissues down his shorts to catch his seed as he presses into all the bruises that make his thighs ache all day every day. At this point if Richie just looks like he wants to add another bruise to the constellation on his legs, Eddie gets hard.

"We're in my room," Richie reminds Eddie, "You can say my name." Like there was any way Eddie could have forgotten-- there was no way to forget. Everything about being in a bed, in a house, in his room changed the entire way this felt. It felt real, no more the fleeting occurrence of 'circumstance' as if their trysts so far had been purely accidental or coincidental, the actions of two bored teens sharing space, not two boys in love. But this? This felt like they were dating, like Richie was going to take Eddie to prom and talk to his mom about his intentions. 

A sweet thought, if entirely impossible. 

Another lazy hickey is sucked into Eddie's thigh at the apex of the curve of plump muscle splayed beneath him. Richie takes his time leaving a mottled map behind him, until he finally tilts his head up to mouth openly and wetly at the bulge of Eddie's pants, feeling his cock jump at the sudden, warm attention, but refusing to touch him underneath his shorts for now, unable to help himself from teasing when Eddie had worked so hard to do explicitly the same thing.

"Oh fuck! Richie--" Eddie's bruised thighs coil around Richie's neck like a python, both hands digging into his long black curls and holding on as he rocks up against his mouth. He's quickly forgetting the entire reason he came here-- something he finds himself falling prey to every time Richie gets his hands on him. It's always such a struggle to get a word in edgewise, the other boy's hands are so magnetically attracted to his body, determined to turn Eddie into a pillow princess. 

He indulges in it for now, grinding against Richie's torturing lips and tongue, holding him in by his hands, caged by his thighs and keeping his face where it belongs. Even through the fabric of his shorts, quickly soaking through with Richie's saliva, his tongue feels as hot as a brand. Richie has done his fair share of work to reciprocate Eddie's enthusiasm for oral sex, but there's honestly no matching the hunger Eddie has developed for feeling Richie's cock down his throat. Still, when he does take the time to give Eddie head, it's mindblowing each and every time. 

"Richie, I'm-- you're-- _distracting_ me--" he pants, still not trying to push him away or change their position, complaining for its own sake.

"Not my fault you came over before 10pm, dude. You know how much time that gives me?" Richie jeers without empathy as he nudges at Eddie's cock with his nose, feeling it twitch and try its goddamn best to raise up despite the heavy fabric weighing it down, only made worse by the heavy patch of wet that was soaking into the fibers thanks to his leaking cock and Richie's mouth.

And now he had the time to kill. This wasn't any normal 3 or 4 hour long distraction in the middle of the night with an early morning greeting them both on the other side. This wasn't a hurried blowjob under the bridge heading out of town with the two overcome with the lust they feel for the other. This was intentional, this was perfect: this was Eddie, in Richie's room, for at least eight hours, if not more. Eddie could bet his sweet ass that Richie was going to distract him, and enjoy every goddamn minute of doing just that.

Worse still, Richie seems to have absolutely no fucking intention of removing those shorts. Fingers hook into the elastic at his waistband, but instead of pulling them down and off Eddie's perfect, bruised legs, Richie pulls them _up_. Cutting into Eddie's crack and raising to curl tightly against his package, Richie groans at the obvious, sudden tightness clinging to the boy, and he dives back down to work eagerly and hungrily. Raising Eddie's leg again, Richie attacks the ass cheek that is now bared thanks to Richie's pulling on his pants. Without preface, Richie sinks his teeth into the curve of Eddie's ass, leaving a bruise higher and darker than he had yet to dare, licking a thick, wet stripe into the salty skin where ass met leg and moaning as he does, like just eating Eddie's leg could finish him off.

Eddie's toes curl in his sneakers and he squeals at the sudden ticklish bite into the meat between his cheek and thigh, the spot there so tender and sensitive and so very unused to teeth. He throws his head back and sobs from deep in his chest, another thick bead of pre soaking into the wet mess that's been made of the front of his shorts. Pleasure saturates his body, a dark flush painting his cheeks and throat and chest through the thin white cotton of his tee shirt. 

"I'm-- you-- have to-- let me--" Eddie tries uselessly, licking his lips, long gone dry from his own panting breaths. He doesn't manage to get out what Richie has to "let him" do, and he doesn't seem to actually care that much about following through with it, since he gives up very quickly. His hands are still tangled in Richie's hair, but he doesn't try to pry him away-- in fact he lovingly removes his glasses and sets them on the side table so they don't get squished between them as Richie sets his teeth again into his thigh.

It's a kind gesture from Eddie, who knows better than anyone else in the friend group just what a rough night does to Richie, and just how sick his parents are of buying replacements. Not even entirely because Eddie's thighs close like a vice over his head sometimes-- sometimes it's totally innocuous things, like riding his bike and flipping over his handles, or the upper classmen deciding to kick the shit out of him for no other reason than his glasses being too thick. Unfortunately for Richie, excuses didn't really matter, what matter was that his prescription was not cheap to fill, and they were sick of doing it.

So it was a good thing Eddie took Richie's glasses off, because Richie moans into Eddie's skin and buries his face into the curve of his ass. Nose grinding up and into the tight wedge of cotton, Richie shakes his head back and forth to rut and grind his nose into the delicate space between Eddie's legs, while Richie's mouth bites at the cloth shorts and nips at Eddie's skin in the process. Sharp pinpricks of pain punctuate the overwhelming warmth of Richie's mouth, until all at once Richie growls a noise of pure frustration. 

The hands are back at Eddie's waistband, his mouth draws away from his ass and cock, and with a final, demanding yank, Richie pulls those insidious red shorts away from Eddie's body, and leans back as he does it. Richie takes a second just to admire Eddie beneath him, shorts still in his hand. And then, when he's sure he can feel Eddie's eyes on him, Richie brings those pants to his nose and takes a deep, savoring inhale, holding his breath like he was trying to catalogue the smell for later.

"You _gotta_ let me keep those," Richie mutters, hands returning to Eddie's thighs to spread him open and apart, the boys cock glistening and twitching, untouched, in the air above him. "You gotta," He says again, serious, before ducking his head and eagerly licking a wet stripe across his ass, wasting no time at all.

Heat converges quickly in his cock as Eddie's fist tightens in Richie's hair with a whimper. Watching him _sniff_ his fucking shorts has his head spinning almost nauseously he's so turned on, and he thanks god that the other boy isn't touching his cock right now, because he's certain he wouldn't even be able to withstand two strokes before he spilled over his belly. He tastes like soap and antibacterial body wash against Richie's tongue, all sharp and antiseptic, as well as the tangy salt of fresh sweat, the kind that had just worked up in the past few minutes with Richie's face buried between his legs. 

"They're... my favorite--" he moans, angling his hips up and spreading his legs himself, giving himself completely over to the other boy. He holds him by the hair with one hand, by the back of his neck with the other, encouraging him forward as he buries his tongue against his hole. "I like to-- to sleep in them--"

He gives up talking again, letting his head fall back as he basks in the attention, his hole fluttering and clenching around Eddie's tongue and lips. He's gotten very used to the feeling of Richie's mouth on him by now, the other boy has proved how enthusiastically he enjoys the process of eating his ass and thighs specifically, to the point he'll sometimes go for so long that Eddie is left raw and sore, and he'll _still_ try to go back in for more. Tonight they're barely started, but already he thinks that maybe it was a mistake to come over this early. He might not even be able to sit comfortably by the end of the night, there will be so many fresh bruises on him. 

"Fingers--" he gasps, begs, really. "Fingers, fingers--"

There's nothing better than the sound of Eddie Kaspbrak begging for fingers to tear him open. There's something so honest about the way he does it, something so open and genuine and real and _hungry_ about it, all qualities that many of the Loser's Club might argue are not Eddie's strong suit. But here, wrapped up in Richie and enthralled with every single stroke of his hand and drag of his tongue, there's no room for anything other than honesty. Richie doesn't allow it. He's systematically plucked Eddie apart until the boy can be nothing but honest in the wake of his affection, and Richie only wishes he could bottle the sound of him begging so he could play it on loop on his headphones. Actually, that was definitely an idea. He'd keep it for later.

For now, fingers. Thumbs dig into Eddie's crack and open him wide, as Richie almost bends Eddie in half to get a better look at him. He does take the time to settle his legs over his own shoulders, and the action seems to make him pause and retract, mind focused somewhere else temporarily for the time being. Namely? Pulling off Eddie's sneaker, then sock, his mouth adoringly kissing the smooth, hairless expanse of Eddie's calf and ankle as he goes. With a devious glance up at Eddie, he grins before being so bold as to kiss the center of Eddie's foot. It wasn't a move he would make normally, but just like the rest of him, it smells like soap and tastes just as inoffensive.

When Richie raises Eddie's other leg over his shoulder, he does the same. Slowly pulling Eddie's feet free of his sneakers, Richie uses both hands to roll Eddie's sock down, kissing each indent and line caused by the cotton, nuzzling Eddie's ankle with his nose affectionately, and then sealing the entire process with a kiss to his opposite foot. 

Then he's back, satisfied with their moment of tenderness and vulnerability. Richie's thumbs pry Eddie open and his head dips down, the tips of both thumbs seating themselves inside of the smaller boy so he can pull him apart inside out, massaging that tight rim even as Richie's tongue buries against his hole and then inside of it, right alongside the tips of those two fingers.

Richie, at this point, has become intimately familiar with Eddie's hole. He's licked it open with his tongue and plugged it full of his fingers so many times that he knows exactly how it feels as it goes slack from his touch. He knows the way it starts out tight and slowly loosens the more Richie plys it with attention, adjusting to the affection little by little with every lap and stroke and press of tongue, teeth and fingers. 

This time isn't like that. This time, inexplicably, Eddie's hole is already so soft when Richie presses his thumbs inside that he could swear he'd already spent an hour eating and finger-fucking the smaller boy open. He's tender, even a little bit puffy, his hole already a charming shade of strawberry red. It was easy to overlook before because he'd been dry, he didn't show up already slicked up, but there was no denying it now that Richie's fit both of his thumbs and his tongue inside without a struggle-- Eddie had already played with himself before he even arrived. 

"Shit-- fuckfuckfuck--" Eddie whines, arching up into Richie's mouth, his rim clenching around the teasing tips of his fingers, trying in vain to pull them deeper inside. "Richie, please, please Richie _please_ \--"

For a second, Richie's mind seems to white out when he realizes that Eddie's already come prepared. Short shorts, no underwear, a bag, already stretched? What the fuck was he here for? Was he feeling guilty? Had he already hooked up with someone? A jealous thought Richie quickly shook out of-- after all, who else would Eddie be hooking up with? Was it not more likely that he was just a sick pervert like he was?--it didn't stop him from leaning back, thumbs still settled in to the first knuckle, but not offering any more.

"Did you come _prepared_ , dude?" Richie says, his voice a harsh whisper like he could barely speak the words out loud. Even whispering them had his gut clenching, "You wanted to take all the fun for me or something? Don't think I'm good at it?" That part wasn't sincere in the least, but he had to raise the complaint, even as his thumbs withdraw from Eddie's sensitive, plush hole and are replaced with two of his proper fingers, instead, shoving into him to the hilt and spreading inside of him when Eddie parts like warm butter around him.

It makes Richie suck in a heavy breath through his teeth, eyes going wide and awed as he marvels at Eddie splitting open with such little effort and scissoring his fingers inside of the smaller boy. One heavy hand goes to Eddie's hip to pin him into place, to stop the adamant thrusting of his hips down in an attempt to reclaim some sort of ownership over the situation, any at all. 

"Holy shit, Eds," There's that reverent voice again, Richie clearly gobsmacked as he drags his tongue across his lips and settles a third finger inside of him, easier than he ever had, before, "Holy _shit_ , you did this at your _house?"_ The thought of Eddie pulling himself apart hidden from the watchful eye of his mom was... too fucking sexy.

Eddie opens his mouth to protest the idea that he'd done this because he didn't think Richie was good at it-- because that's fucking absurd. Richie is so good at this that sometimes it's all Eddie can even think about, every space between his ears full of the thought of Richie's fingers and tongue. But he doesn't manage to get a single word out before Richie is fucking him with his fingers, and he collapses back against the mattress with a shout of pleasure. 

The flush darkens on his cheeks and heaving chest, his shirt rucked up to his rib cage, and he's breathing so hard he's actually a little bit light-headed, like right after you blow up a balloon. Every time he tries to collect himself enough to speak, Richie's fingers tag his prostate again and he's taken apart by another violent shudder that seizes him by the lungs and throat, and sends his thighs trembling. He can't even thrust to meet those fingers, Richie's hand on his hip is too strong and he's made too weak by those long, probing digits. 

"Rich-- Richie-- you-- you-- so good-- _fuck_ you're-- it's not-- like that I-- _fuck!"_ He throws his head back into the pillows as he hits his first climax of the night, shooting across his belly with a yelp, his knees folding up towards his chest, curling up like a little pillbug so tightly that a speck of his release lands on his own chin. His hole clenches and clamps around Richie's fingers tightly for several bone-shaking seconds, until he finally unfurls with a gust of breath, and reaches down to grab Richie by the wrist so hard that there's a light slapping noise from their skin making contact, just to stop him from continuing to thrust-- too raw, too soon.

He looks up at the other boy with wet, adoring eyes and swallows hard, his ass still twitching and fluttering around his fingers. "I didn't do it because I don't think you're good at it," he says, his voice hoarse, another full-body shudder claiming him. "I just-- w-- wanted to do a full clean out, okay? With the hose and everything. And when I had it up there it hit that spot and I just-- got so turned on thinking about you so I just-- I got carried away, alright? It's not cause I wanted to take the fun out of it for you..."

It was basically the most romantic thing Eddie could have said, and the softness in Richie's eyes betrays that. Even if they are talking about the weird medicinal hose Eddie's mom keeps attached in the shower, the fact that it was untrue enough that he had to stop Richie from fucking him apart was almost... sweet. "Hey man," Richie murmurs soothingly, leaning over Eddie's torso to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, "Don't even sweat it. I was shitting you." 

And yet, not a second later Richie is pulling his hand away like Eddie had done something wrong, leaving Eddie open and raw on the bed, clenching open and closed around nothing with desperate little squeezes. It's clear he's still desperate to be filled, still hungry for it-- but if they have access to the whole of Richie's kitchen, why do this down and dirty like they had been? Why settle for second best? "Hang on," He says quickly, leaning back off of the mattress and and wiping his hand off, "Seriously, don't move. I wanna get something, since you're here. I wanna-- Just stay here, okay?" Richie says seriously, cheeks flushed.

He doesn't wait for an answer, ignoring the soft little "wait--" before he tears off into the empty house, leaving the door wide open into the darkness of his hallway, and Eddie disheveled and debauched on his bed. How freeing was that? Not even the chance of being interrupted, not even the risk-- they could fuck anywhere they wanted! Richie, in the kitchen, pauses with his hand in the cupboard where he'd been grabbing the good olive oil his mom uses for pasta (and he uses for jerking off) 

They could _fuck_.

Richie feels the realization down into the tips of his toes, and when he comes back to his room, bottle in hand, he looks almost haunted by the realization. He stands at the end of the room, just staring at Eddie openly like he's trying to decide what to do with himself. His cock already hard in his jeans, Eddie already soft in the bed, it was a hard fucking sell to not just dig in and fuck Eddie silly. But this? This they had to talk about-- at least.

"My parents aren't gonna be here the whole weekend, Eds," Richie says, like he's revealing a grand secret. "Do you know what that means?" Was it on Eddie's mind like it was on Richie's? Could he be so lucky? Could Eddie be so depraved?

"Uh... it means a lot of things," Eddie says, pushing up to lean on his elbows. He's quite a sight on the bed, wearing nothing but his rumpled polo, pushed halfway up to his chest. His cock is laying half-soft across his hip, his stomach still speckled in a couple spots with his seed where he'd missed the rushed cleanup job he did with a tissue in Richie's absence. "No bed time?" he offers, in a guess.

Well, that answers that question, and it makes Richie's entire face twist in agony as he looks down at the floor of his room, raising a hand to drag nervously through his hair. He swallows, heavily, looking back up at Eddie before crossing the room and setting the oil on the nightstand, careful not to smash his own glasses. 

"Look, just-- tell me to go to hell or something if you're uncomfortable, okay? I-- you've been... this... you're _great_ , Eds. I-- you know-- I really--" He can't get it out. Months of eating this kids ass and he still can't say he fucking loves the goddamn boy. Stupid fucking Richie. Stupid fucking nerves. Stupid fucking gay nerves. "We-- we could fuck. Have sex, I mean, make--" His voice goes quiet, Richie looking sheepish like a dog found with trash strewn across the floor, "Make love. If you wanted," He pegs the last bit on at the end very quickly, to cover the sentimentality.

"Oh," Eddie sits up properly, his eyes widening. He honestly, really hadn't expected Richie to actually say it. He'd been so sure that the other boy was too nervous, if he'd put it off this long, that he would just put it off forever. But maybe it was just because they never had the time to take, like this. Maybe he just didn't feel right asking to fuck Eddie in a dirty underground bunker or between the trees in the woods or alone on the side of a hill. Maybe he was just waiting for the right moment. 

Richie looks panicked for a moment by Eddie's less than explosive response, and he quickly puts a hand on his shoulder to silence any insecurities he might start spouting. "Richie-- why do you think I did a deep clean?" he laughs, equally nervous but excited.

Richie's head snaps up so fast he was sure to get whiplash, eyes going wide, breath entirely leaving him in one shaky shove, "Really?" He asks, like he's being let in on a secret he wasn't supposed to know, "You--" and it hits him in the gut again. The bag, the shower, the preparation, the lack of fucking underwear-- "What-- what, uh--" He glances, then, at the duffel bag on the ground, swallowing so hard Eddie ca see the adam's apple in his throat bobbing while the muscles in his jaw clench and unclench. "What's in the bag?" If anyone had anything better than his mom's favorite olive oil, it'd be Eddie.

"I brought... some stuff," Eddie admits softly. "Some condoms... lube I grabbed out of the free basket in sex ed... and, uh-- a change of clothes. For tomorrow. I doped my mom with twice the amount of ambien she usually takes, so she's going to be out for fifteen hours at least. I um-- planned to stay the night. If that's okay. I brought all my shower stuff, too, my tooth brush-- you know. Normal sleep over shit."

"Yeah! Yeah, yeah! Yeah. I mean, _yeah_ \-- yeah. It's cool, man. You can stay the night," Richie's voice does the gambit from overexcited teenager to hideously nervous teenager to 'teenager attempting to play it cool', all with the word 'yeah'. He pulls another hand through his hair to keep it out of his face, swallowing heavily around the knot in his throat as he grabs the bag from the ground and takes it upon himself to open it up, met with the treasure trove of things Richie hadn't even thought to grab. Especially condoms, since it wasn't like Eddie could get pregnant-- But just seeing it all made a hot pit settle in his gut again, and his chest heave another deep breath.

Tongue wetting nervously-dry lips, Richie pulls out the packets of condoms and lube, setting them on the table in front of his own offering of oil. The rest he leaves in the bag for later, tomorrow, whenever. Setting one knee on the mattress, Richie's hands go to Eddie's shirt, pulling it the rest of the way off of his chest, "I wanna just-- is it okay if I just...?" Go for it? How did he ask? Did you just _start?_

"Lay down. I wanna try riding you first," Eddie says, and pushes Richie down onto his back on the bed as he straddles him, completely nude. The yellow light from Richie's dim lamp is cast across his body, catching on all the soft pockets of baby fat that have thinned out over the years but still managed to stick to the very bottom of his belly and little love handles that sit on the waistband of most pants he wears-- though totally naked like this, they smooth out so they're only really prominent if Richie grabs him by the hips. 

He opens Richie's jeans and pulls them down his legs, letting him stay in his shirt for now as he kicks off his pants and underwear, and toes off his socks just to boot while Eddie settles on top of him, their cocks lined up together side by side. Eddie leans down to give Richie a downright chaste kiss to his cheek, keeping up with his trend of refusing kissing after Richie has gone down on him or he's gone down on Richie, until after the offending party has tended to his oral hygiene. Just another one of his quirks. 

"I don't really know what I'm doing, so no making fun," he tells Richie very seriously as he tears open one of the foil packets, and reaches down to stroke the slick over Richie's cock, to make sure the slide will be as smooth as possible. He eyeballs the condoms, and then looks back down at Richie's cock, full and hard and leaking against his stomach, and then back to the condoms. "Do you... I mean, I know... AIDS is kind of a big deal and all, but-- that's only for people who have sex with strangers and stuff, right? I've never had sex with anyone else, have you?"

"What? No! No, I haven't-- no. I haven't," Ironic considering the sheer amount that Richie talks about sex, but pretty unsurprising for someone like Eddie who knows him as well as he does. Hell, Richie can't even let his eyes linger on someone he finds attractive if they're turned away from him and doing something else-- how the hell would he have had sex with someone? Of course people might have tried, the occasional desperate freshman looking for any clout she can grab, but they were barking up the entirely wrong tree, poor dears.

Smoothing his hands up Eddie's thighs, Richie helps him get comfortable against his thighs, glancing at the foil packet in his hands to Eddie's face. "I, uh-- you gotta be born with AIDS to pass it on, or catch it from someone else who already has it. And since-- I mean, since I haven't fucked anyone and you _definitely_ haven't," a little jab, a breath of levity to quell both of their shaking, tentative nerves, "Maybe we, uh-- don't have to worry about it." 

But there is something he wants to do, reminded by Eddie's stalwart checking. Leaning forward to grab a packet of lube from the nightstand, Richie quickly tears it open with is teeth, wrinkling his nose when some gets into his mouth on accident. He plows through without mentioning, daring not to ruin the moment with something as ridiculous as tasting the lube. It didn't matter. They were doing something else with it-- "But we do gotta worry about this," Richie says seriously, knowing that while spit was fine, it also dried, an this was already going to be.... _something_ for Eddie to experience. So Richie coats his fingers and slips them up and inside of Eddie without hesitation, wide eyes on his face as he goes three fingers deep without even an inch of resistance-- Although that might have been due to the surprise factor. Whatever.

"Oh fuck--" Eddie feels the strength punched right out of his body when Richie slots his fingers back up into him, and he has to catch himself on the other boy's shoulders with both hands to keep from straight-up collapsing on him. So soon after his previous orgasm, he's still incredibly sensitive, and he might not have been able to handle Richie's fingers with their usual liberal application of saliva that left him feeling raw and a little chafed sometimes-- but this?

They've never used lube before. They've never had the time or money to waste trying to get their hands on the stuff, and never wanted to risk the questions anyway. Eddie had always assumed it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway-- but good _lord_ he was wrong. It makes the glide so much smoother, silky soft inside him, like he's being coated with velvet. It feels like the silken sort of texture that comes with a really delicate, fine lather with soap, the kind that's just a smooth, flat creamy white. The kind of lather he would play with in the sink for far longer than anyone normal washes their hands, just for the pleasure of feeling it against his skin. 

Like that, but combined with the gut-punch of Richie's long fingers. He pants through his nose, tipping his head back with a whine, both his hole and his fingers tightening in unison as pleasure wakes his cock up, twitching against Richie's belly and starting to fill and stand once more. He rocks his hips back against his fingers, opening and taking them deeper, panting through his open mouth, turned handily into a creature of pleasure. He knows he looks like a sinner, completely naked on top of another man, his ass greedily sucking on three of his fingers, head thrown back in bliss-- but he's more than willing to go to hell for Richie.

One hand heavy and firm on Eddie's hip, the other resolutely burying three fingers in and out of him in long, steady, languid thrusts, Richie watches Eddie come undone right before his eyes. His cock grinds against one of Eddie's thighs, but its pleasure is an afterthought, coincidental, without focus. Right now it wasn't about Richie's pleasure. It was never about Richie's pleasure, a fact he was perfectly happy with accepting. Occasionally he felt the dull twinge in his balls as his cock began to seep shiny pre across Eddie's thigh, glossing the bruises he'd made so lovingly and making them catch on the light, but for now, that was good enough.

The plan was to work Eddie to full mast again before he got started. It just felt like the right thing to do, and best of all? It doesn't take long. Eddie is nothing but enthusiastic above him, Richie just as eager to please below him, and when they collide it creates a den of hedonism that only feels right to be starring in Richie's bedroom, the first time his parents are out of town.

Only when Eddie's cock is jerking tall and proud against his own belly does Richie consider moving on; 'Moving on', in this case, is nestling his pinkie finger in to join the other three spearing Eddie open, but then refusing to move. Eddie was kept plugged without pleasure, held in place by that firm hand squeezing his hip once and Richie's low mutter of, "Hang on," Followed by the hand moving from Eddie's hip to the packet of lube. He clumsily squeezes the dregs of the packet between his fingers, working out whatever was leftover-- And it goes so far that it is more than enough to refresh the untouched slick across his cock, just the action of touching himself enough to make Richie's breath drag from him like a bull.

"Okay," He says, tossing the packet aside, to be forgotten about later. He gives those fingers inside of Eddie one final grind before he withdraws completely, leaving him open and wet, "You're good, dude."

It takes Eddie a second to gather himself enough to even think about coordinating all his limbs in the effort to spear himself on Richie, he feels so boneless from the deep fingerfucking he'd just received. He swallows hard and reboots his brain with a shake of his head, and then finally raises up on his knees to position himself astride Richie's hips. 

Nerves take him as he reaches behind himself to take Richie's slippery cock in hand, and position him just-so. He feels the blunt tip against his hole, and there's a brief moment where he's truly afraid he won't be able to take it. He won't stretch far enough, or it'll hurt, or he won't like it for whatever reason, and everything they've built to these past few months will have been for nothing. He's afraid that Richie will be annoyed with him if he doesn't like it or it hurts-- even though Richie has never shown him anything but patience and devotion in all their experimentation, the fear is still there.

But all of those fears are blown out of the water when he angles his hips down and takes the head of Richie's cock inside. It knocks the breath out of his lungs in tandem with the other boy, and he holds him by one shoulder as he slowly lowers himself down over his length. Richie's liberal preparation had been more than enough, he never should have even doubted. 

His bruised thighs make contact with Richie's hips as he finally takes him to the base, and only then does he take another shaky inhale, realizing he'd been holding his breath the whole slide down. He feels so incredibly _full_ , his muscles all weakly and involuntarily twitching around the heavy mass inside him. It feels foreign but exciting, full all the way up to his belly button, and he rolls his hips in gentle, shallow little circles to adjust and familiarize himself with the feeling. It's not that different from fingers, just bigger and deeper and more.

"Wow," he gasps softly, grabbing Richie's other shoulder and squeezing. " _Wow_..."

"Huh-- Uuhhh--" While Eddie seems like he's adjusting to something he can at least relate to thanks to Richie's greedy fingers, Richie is experiencing a whole other fucking universe. The hands on Eddie's hips, which had initially been gentle but firm support while Eddie kept himself steady and upright, were now white-knuckled and hard, almost shaking as his nails sink deep into the plush fat of Eddie's hips. His expression had gone from adoringly hazy and fond to literally a fugue state, pupils overblown, the dark overtaking the usual kind warmth of his eyes-- Richie didn't seem to be on this plane of existence at all. 

His mouth was open in an unspoken gasp, his chest and belly not raising or lowering with breath. In fact, it would seem like he'd forgotten how to breathe altogether, and he remembers it all at once as he gasps loudly, his breath inhaling with a shuddering, horrible drag. It certainly sounded like he needed an inhaler with how hard he was suddenly gasping for air, his entire body releasing wen he finally gets some. 

"H-Holyshit," Richie whispers very quickly, like he'll never get enough breath to speak. Eddie's little grind has him shaking his head into his pillows, eyebrows furrowed over his eyes, "Holyshit, holyshit, holy shit, holy _fuck_ \-- you're-- I'm-- you're--" In true fashion, his brain doesn't know what he wants to say first, and so decides to mash together both thoughts in some horrible amalgam of nonsense. "Eddie-- Eddie-- Eddie, _Eddie_ , **_Eddie_** , fuck-- _fuck_ you're hot-- fuck you're-- holyshit I can't describe what this feels like. You feel like. This is. You're so-- this is--" Wanton hips arch into the smaller boy then, claiming rough thrust outside of Eddie's control as he reacts on carnal instinct, immediately shaking his head, "Sorry-- sorry man, sorrysorrysorry, I couldn't-- I'm gonna fucking _lose_ it dude, you gotta-- please move-- _please move_ , man-- please move-- Eddie--"

Eddie's head is full of soup as he listens to Richie completely lose it beneath him, pride swelling in his chest as he realizes he's responsible for making Richie feel this way. He has the upper hand for once, he's the one in control, he's the one making _Richie_ feel good. 

Not that he doesn't feel good. In fact when he leans up onto his knees to carefully take his first thrust, the drag of Richie's cock against his rim has his thighs outright shaking, before he drops back down, and the settling of his length back inside him has him yelping like a wounded animal. It's like the shockwave of a bomb touching down, radiating out through his body in a way that makes him shudder and lose his sensibilities for a moment. 

It gets a little bit easier the second time, and then a little easier than that the third-- until he's lifting himself up and dropping back down at a relatively steady pace. It's not quite fast or hard enough to have their skin clapping or the bed shaking, but it's more than enough for their first try. 

"Oh my god..." Eddie's head falls back against his shoulders, and he sits up properly to make the process a little easier, which leaves his hands with nothing to hold onto-- so he just grabs onto Richie's wrists for leverage as he bounces shallowly in his lap. He's getting used to the feeling, but that doesn't mean it isn't still punching all the air out of his lungs and the sense out of his brain every time Richie's cock plugs him all the way full. "Richie-- fuck man you're so-- _big_ \--"

"Sorry-- sorry, sorry--" It's almost like Richie's mind is stuck in a feedback loop, and he can do nothing but apologize with every gasp coming from above him. For what it's worth, though, he certainly doesn't look sorry. In fact, judging by the way is hands were coming down and holding onto him, Richie wasn't feeling very sorry at all. 

Unable to stop himself, or more likely just unwilling, Richie's hips begin to roll in unison with Eddie's. He thrusts up to meet Eddie's stroke down, and begins to feel himself pulled even deeper into the boy above him, final barriers broken with Richie's participation and enabling them to come together harder than before. He snaps forward as Eddie rolls down, angling and twisting his hips inside of the smaller boy to feel every last muscle as it flexes around him with sublime, immaculate warmth, aided by the smooth glide of a copious amount of lube. 

And Christ was he glad he didn't use the fucking olive oil. This was better. Eddie's body was beginning to make wet slurping noises as the pair rolled away from one another and their hips grew more frantic. Richie's hands slip from Eddie's hips to his ass, unable to stop himself as he grabs and kneads at the perfect skin he so adored-- his actions opening Eddie up wider and dragging Richie further into him, which caused him to moan like an animal in heat, hips roughly jacking into him with a stuttering rhythm he only manages to contain after he buries himself to the hilt in him twice. 

Swallowing around the knot wedged in his throat, Richie pulls Eddie closer, hungrily groaning for his proximity and finally latching his lips onto Eddie's shoulder, the closest thing he could reach. "Fuck, Eddie, fuck Eddie--" He mutters painfully against his skin, shaking with the effort it took to keep himself put together and restrained.

Laying chest to chest like this, neither of them can get very deep, but they continue to grind and roll together, all clumsy and unpracticed but so, so earnest. Eddie's entire body feels like it's full of cotton, heavy and lazy and uncoordinated, and every deep grind of Richie's hips that tag his prostate sends another whine tumbling out of him against the side of the other boy's neck. 

"You-- gotta-- Rich, I want--" Eddie tries, panting and unsteady as he pushes up onto an elbow to run fingers into Richie's hair and look him in the eye, trying to get the language center of his brain back online. "On top of me, Richie, I wanna feel you on top of me."

"Ohthankfuckingshit," Richie says all at once, in a rush, and absolutely needs no more encouragement. 

With a move that's so smooth he had to have practice (or at least be one lucky motherfucker) Richie's hands curl around Eddie's back to hold him to Richie's chest as he flips them, withdrawing only for a milisecond to adjust. He grabs one of Eddie's thighs, pulls it over his hips, seats himself between the boy's legs, and without hesitation he buries himself inside of Eddie to the hilt, leaving Richie to shout from pleasure, his head hanging loosely from his shoulders, curls tickling Eddie's chest. 

Richie is still for a moment, readjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being balls-deep in his best friend, and then he remembers what to do all at once. His hips pull back, then shove forward, and like that he sets a desperate rhythm, thrusts staggered and stuttering as Richie leans over Eddie and mouths at his neck. He's using a dangerous amount of teeth for someone who knows how little Eddie can be found out-- but it's hard to care with Richie beginning to pound Eddie into the bed.

Sitting on Richie's hips riding him had been nothing compared to this. Eddie had thought _that_ was overwhelming, that it was the height of pleasure, but lying on his back underneath the other boy like this as he savages into him like he wants to eat him alive-- well, Eddie's damn glad they decided to wait until Richie's parents were out of town, because Eddie throws his head back and _howls_. 

"FUCK!" he white-knuckles the blankets in both hands, his back arched and legs folded up towards his chest, his entire body curled in like a little parcel bundled with twine. He can't uncurl, every muscle in his body is rigid and locked up with pleasure-- the pleasure of Richie battering his prostate like he's trying to break the fucking bed under them both. It's the only word he can get out, everything after that is a series of wordless, ragged wails and sobs, tears springing up in his eyes from the sheer overwhelming nature of this. 

This is _sex_ \-- as if everything he and Richie have been doing the last few months hasn't been, but this really really is. This is proper _sex_ , this is the kind that people write home about. This is the kind of sex that he'll feel all the way into tomorrow, the kind he'll remember for the rest of his life. It feels right that they would give each other their virginities like this, that they would unite for the first time together. It's always been them against the world, even among their friend group it's always been them. 

"Richie--" he calls his name, tears spilling down his cheeks, overcome, and whatever rules he usually has for kissing after Richie eats him out are forgotten in the haze of this emotional pleasure, and he cups the other boy's face with shaking hands, drawing him into a sloppy kiss that's mostly just the two of them panting into each other's mouths.

Richie leans over Eddie, balanced on his arms to avoid crushing him as he moans into their kiss. The metal frame of his bed groans under the effort as if it was feeling what they were feeling, too much and too big to understand, too overwhelming to put into words. And Richie can't. He continues to fill Eddie with himself, continues to drive unrelentingly into the boy beneath him even while he sobs into his mouth, desperately panting his name like a siren's song. 

Their mouths meet with open lips and hungry tongues, sharing breath, pouring pleas of each other's names down their throats. Richie's arms begin to shake with the effort of holding himself up, his body begins to collapse in on himself, and as Richie leans forward to grind his forehead into Eddie's, he punctuates another kiss with a desperate, quiet, pained-- "I love you, I love you, I love you--" Words spilling out before he can stop them, no other thought in his soul. Each stroke forward is punctuated with a word, each wet breath shared between them-- because they were both crying now, there was no mistaking it, cheeks so wet it was hard to tell where one's started and the other's ended--captured and solidified with a kiss. 

Eddie hears the affection in Richie's voice, and it makes him feel warm in a way that goes deeper than the heat spiraling through his body already. He opens his mouth to return the gesture, but all he can get out is a miserable squeak, unable to draw enough breath even to moan when Richie lays down on top of him. He hears it in his head though, a hazy exhausted loop of _love you, love you, love you--_

And then Richie comes, now definitely the hardest he's ever come in his life, spilling over that edge and beyond it and shouting into Eddie's mouth and throat and skin. Anywhere he can touch, anywhere he can latch on, pure fucking luck allowing them to dodge the threat of demarcation of Eddie's delicate, ivory skin and instead replaced with the rumbling shout of Richie's voice as he buries himself to the hilt and finally goes still, the rest of his body spasming as he unloads jet after jet of cum into Eddie's hole, brain finally empty, not a goddamn thing else to say.

Eddie isn't sure if he came right before or right after Richie, but either way it's so near to his pleasure that it's practically in unison. He throws his arms around Richie's neck and sobs against his shoulder, curling into him and framing him in with all four of his limbs like he's afraid the taller boy will get up and leave if he doesn't keep him there. He releases between their bellies with a squeak, the most intense orgasm of his life nearly causing him to black out completely. 

Relaxing slowly in time with Richie, he collapses back against the blankets, panting and wheezing slightly. His inhaler is... somewhere, but for once he isn't in a hurry to scramble for it at the very first sign of a trembling breath. He's content to just lay underneath Richie and count his breathing, running his fingers through the long curls laying across his shoulder. 

"Whoa..." he finally breaks the silence. "Stick a fork in me, dude, I'm _done_."  
  
Richie becomes aware of Eddie's fingers in his hair first, then the feel of his nails against his shoulder. Next is Eddie's breath, deep but wheezy from deep in his chest, followed quickly by the unbelievable warmth spreading between them. None of it feels urgent. Hell, nothing feels urgent. Everything feels so distant and far away, dreamlike in its relevancy to whatever reality he was feeling now. 

Only vaguely is Richie even aware that Eddie had tried to talk, although his brain does try to make sense of the words, even if he sounds like he's underwater. He's probably crushing Eddie, his larger body fully collapsed on top of his smaller one, curled protectively around Eddie until a gut-check feeling tells him to move. Only then does he, a monumental effort of Richie pulling away to collapse beside the other boy, pulling out as he did and trying not to gag at the sudden transition from tight heat to open air. Even that doesn't seem to bother him, though, thank fucking god.

"Same," Richie supplies unhelpfully, and it's pretty apparent he hadn't genuinely comprehended Eddie at all. Did he really have to, though? Another gargantuan effort has Richie opening his eyes, the hand draped across Eddie's chest clenching and unclenching, gimmie hands at something too far away to get, "I need.. my glasses," He mutters. There's only so much he can take with his blurry vision. He really needed to see Eddie. 

Not daring to make Eddie move, Richie pushes himself up on shaking hands to lean over Eddie's chest, pulling his glasses off of the nightstand and shoving them back onto his nose-- before he again collapses, this time directly on top of Eddie, and without much concern for his wellbeing, "Sex _rocks_ ," Richie says stupidly to no one, his head now resting serenely on Eddie's chest, moving with the steady draw of his breath.

"It fucking rocks," Eddie agrees, curling his arm underneath Richie's neck, hugging him against his side, as if Richie is the girl, curled up in the arms of her lover. He runs his fingers through Richie's hair, and turns his head to rest his lips and nose against his forehead with a small, curled smile. "Next time I wanna do you."

His eyes open slightly wider as he says it without thinking, and then his own words sink in, and a tiny flip of panic settles in his stomach. "If-- I mean, if you want that. If you'd want to-- no, uh-- no pressure. I mean, if you don't want to-- I'm fine with this, I like this-- I love this--"

Richie shakes his head exhaustedly, only realizing after a few seconds of head shaking that he hadn't actually.... elaborated what he'd meant by shaking his head. "You've gotta try it, dude," He finally mutters, and doesn't seem to mind at all the switch. Being gay was just doing both, right? Since they were both guys, it made sense that they both did both.... there wasn't a chick involved. They could both fuck and be fucked. "It's--shit, Eds, the way you fucking feel is like..." He's rendered speechless by it again, struck stupid by the had once again carding through his hair. 

"Totally fuck me next time," Richie sounds like he's only half-conscious, "But you gotta.... Be gentle 'cuz I'm..." He stifles a yawn. Typical boy. "...Sensitive.."

A thrill goes through Eddie's chest when Richie consents to the idea of letting Eddie reciprocate next time, goose bumps raising on his arms. He knows now isn't the time, Richie is already passing out, but Eddie can't relax yet, not while his ass is still sloppy, and certainly not without brushing his teeth. 

"I gotta do my night routine," Eddie whispers, rubbing his hand over Richie's arm. "You can sleep, I'll be right back, okay?"

"No, come on..." Richie whines, "Just a nap, man, it's just a nap," He argues pathetically, and rather unconvincingly, pawing at Eddie's side and refusing to lean off of him or even make it easy for him to sit up. "I'm gonna fuck you in half again when I wake up, I just--" He groans, though it seems suspiciously timed to hide a yawn, "One little nap Eddie, baby..." Richie's voice is a low, persuasive croon as he pulls the other flush to his again, burying his face in his neck.

Groggily, as if it's an afterthought, Richie adds, "I could fuck you in the shower..."

Eddie laughs giddily. "You can't even keep your eyes open, dude..." he mutters, brushing his hair back out of his face and staring adoringly down at him. He looks so sleepy, so handsome... he loses himself just tracing the lines of Richie's face, his handsome square jaw and thick eyelashes and sharp cheekbones. He really does love the other boy, he realizes with another tight flutter in his chest. "I'm not gonna take a shower anyway, I just wanna brush my teeth and stuff-- I could pour you in a bowl, man, you gotta sleep."

Groaning loudly, Richie stubbornly wrinkles his entire face and turns away from Eddie's adoring touch. Not that he didn't like it. He did. He loved it-- but he wasn't about to sit here and sleep like an asshole while Eddie washed up. "Shut up, man, don't tell me what to do," Richie mutters as he pulls himself upright, and basically wishes he could be in any position other than that right now. But he's stubborn enough to hold himself there, frowning and rubbing his eye under his glasses. "I'll-- clean up the bed and stuff, go and do whatever," He mutters, flapping a hand over at Eddie impetuously.

Eddie smiles, feeling very much just like a lover about to go about his normal nightly routine before slipping into bed with his boyfriend. It's a twin bed, so it'll be a squeeze-- but god, it'll be a good squeeze. 

With the house as empty as it is, he just walks down the hall buck naked and slips into the bathroom with his bag at his hip. He can't stop grinning as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and briefly gives his backside a once-over to make sure it's dry and clean on the outside (though he doesn't delve too deeply on the inside... just in case) before he finally comes back to the bedroom to find Richie already cuddled down in bed. 

"Hey," he murmurs, lifting the covers to climb in beside the sleepy boy, brushing his hair back from his face again as he lays on his side facing the boy, curled up with him.

There wasn't much changed to the scene except a bit of tidying done. It looked like Richie had managed to locate all of their clothes and put Eddie's on his desk in a pile. He'd cleaned up the packet of lube, the discarded condom packet-- and in the time Eddie had taken to go to the bathroom, had even nipped to the kitchen and gotten a glass of water, which sat on Eddie's side of the bed. There was a second glass for him, too, but it looked like it had been drank with the voracity of a man dying of thirst in a desert. 

Still, when Eddie comes back to the room, Richie shifts, and holds open the blanket for him to get in, arms wide. He doesn't even hesitate in curling his arms around Eddie's waist, pulling him close to his chest, "Hey," He mutters, his voice like gravel, "Missed you," he grumbles into Eddie's forehead, mouth pressed right against his skin.

"Missed me? I was only gone for like five minutes," Eddie says, smiling as the other boy kisses him, folding his arms up between them to keep them out of the way. "You're so mushy, gross."

He doesn't think it's gross, and he doesn't pull away, as he settles the blankets down over him. It's a small space shared by two growing adolescent boys, not strictly even big enough for Richie anymore with how tall he's sprouted up these last couple years, and it's unsurprising that his parents haven't bothered to get him a bigger bed. But being squished in so close with him is comforting, anyway.

A disapproving clicking noise comes from the back of Richie's teeth as he rolls his eyes at Eddie's insult, "Dude, you fucking cried 'cause my dick is so good and you're saying I'm mushy?" He wasn't sure if they could be held to the same standard, a dicking vs gentle words of adoration, but Richie pretends like they're the same thing and he's untouched by the dismissal, anyway. 

Raising his chin to the top of Eddie's head, Richie tucks the smaller boy's head onto his shoulder, curled protectively around him. "Got you water. Figured you'd probably be thirsty," Richie detours from the insult to his sappiness, not wanting to linger on the topic too long.

"Keeping me hydrated?" Eddie rolls over to put his back to Richie's chest, and takes a deep drink from the glass, clearing his throat before settling back down, tucked all prim and small into the circle of Richie's curved body. "God, you're warm," he mumbles, pulling the covers up to his chin, and then Richie's arm around his waist. "I set an alarm for six, I'll have to get home by then, my mom will probably wake up around eight and she'll freak out cause she'll be late for work, so I wanna already be there making her breakfast so she'll never suspect I was gone."

Richie makes a low noise under his breath, "I'll wake you up earlier. I was serious about that round two," He mutters, but it seems pretty unlikely he'll actually follow through with it. His voice is right in Eddie's ear, breath tickling the shell as his nose nuzzles into the hair at the back of his head. He smells like sex and sweat, like Richie in a good way, but that might have just been the smell of his own detergent coming off of his blankets. It felt nice to be on him in any way, regardless. 

Leaning forward, Richie places a kiss to the soft, tender skin behind Eddie's ear, "So rest up, cupcake. You're gonna be tired tomorrow." He even laughs, a self-satisfied purr in his chest.

Eddie does eventually fall asleep, though it's after he thinks he feels Richie's chest evening with slow, deep breaths. It doesn't even end up taking him that long, lulled into peace by his lover behind him. Friend? Partner? 

Behind him, Richie stares at the orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the thick slats of his blinds, moving slowly with time as it passes from late evening into early morning. Richie doesn't move. He doesn't stir. He doesn't dare disrupt the small, deeply-sleeping boy in his arms, cradling him like he was something precious to be protected by him, and him alone. 

Richie stares soundlessly over the shoulder of the boy he's been in love with since he was ten, the boy Richie has been wanting to confess his feelings to for five years, and listens to the hammering of his heart that hasn't stopped beating since he'd finally managed to do it. His true feelings were out there, now. The universe had heard him-- and Eddie _hadn't said it back._

Tucking his face into Eddie's shoulder, Richie finally manages to close his eyes, even if he couldn't turn off the thoughts buzzing loudly in his head. He takes a deep breath, he forces his heart to slow. He tries to simulate sleep, hoping the real thing will come with time.

Even this was better than not being with him at all. And maybe love would come with time, right?

Right?


	5. Chapter 5

Richie doesn't wake Eddie up before the alarm, though he does still try to coax Eddie unsuccessfully into a second round regardless. Eddie isn't having it, but he does give Richie a goodbye kiss (after making him brush his teeth) before he hurries home, and undresses down to his pajamas, already making breakfast when his mother wakes up right at 8:15, in a panic. Eddie is able to calm her easily by cutting her morning routine in half, with breakfast already finished, and she rushes out the door with her morning meal packaged lovingly into a tupperware by a son she doesn't even think to question whether he was there all night, or whether there's a slightly discolored pink spot on his shoulder where Richie's teeth almost bruised him. 

Eddie is blissfully unaware of Richie's plight, in regards to their shared feelings. He doesn't realize he hadn't said it back at the time because he _felt_ it so strongly, and so he sinks so blissfully into this new honeymoon period of their relationship, one of so many that have come in a line. They feel like proper lovers now, Eddie would even want to say boyfriend if they wouldn't get terrorized at school for it. There's no doubt in Eddie's mind that he loves the other boy, it's just a shame that he hadn't noticed his failure to reciprocate the affection out loud. 

Their routine is still similar, though after a couple late nights that left him yawning all day in class, Eddie has to put down his foot with a rule that Richie couldn't come by to whisk him away on school nights. He would always get too carried away with the other boy, and he'd never get back home in time to get enough sleep that he wasn't dying tired the next morning. Unfortunately it really cut into their time together, but Richie would still come by a couple times a week just for them to sit in the bushes right outside Eddie's house and just... talk for a couple hours before parting with a kiss. And sometimes more, if Richie got really bold. 

They'd talk about everything, from school that day to their plans that weekend, where they wanted to go next and sometimes even deeper than that-- their plans for the future. What they wanted to do with the rest of their lives. Eddie's birthday is approaching, and Richie keeps making fun of him for being the oldest in their friend group, always the first to hit the next year older since he'd been born the year previous to the rest of them. They'll be graduating in just two short years, and then? Then they have the whole world ahead of them. It's kind of terrifying, actually. 

Eddie knows that one thing is for sure, he wants to get a college education, but the idea of actually going to college terrifies him. The idea of being in a dorm full of strangers whose routines he can neither memorize nor control, whose hygiene would be questionable, and furthermore to have a roommate? To not even be able to control his own space? It's the nightmare scenario-- but he's been looking at some very promising online programs, which would free him up to live anywhere, technically... though they haven't seriously talked about the idea of moving in together after high school, out of Derry, it's been at the backs of their minds, unspoken.

Richie doesn't know when this dream of his will end, and so he takes advantage of every minute and every opportunity. How long had he grappled with his own sexuality, alone and afraid of what others might think if they knew? How long had he been tormented by words that cut deeper than even his bullies knew about, based on their truth alone, unable to express the extent of his displeasure beyond little more than a scoff and a roll of the eyes and maybe a flip of the bird when he was feeling particularly brave? Anything more than that would be protesting too much, betraying too much of his hand too soon, to a crowd that had nothing but ill intentions. 

But with Eddie, things felt different. They felt brighter. Although they never talked about what they were, whether in relationship or in sexual orientation, even knowing he had Eddie at his side was enough for Richie to feel more okay than he had ever hoped he would be. Every minute spent with Eddie was time well spent, and when he'd begun to talk about the future-- school, family, escape-- he even made Richie want to be better. 

He did his homework because it was an excuse to spend time with Eddie in the library, hidden amongst the stacks, tucked away in a private spot where they could lace their fingers under the table without being found. Richie participated in class projects, for no other reason than to call Eddie at any hour of the day and well into the night. 'Important questions' he always said. They were never very important. Eddie indulged him anyway.

They went to carnivals together and street markets. They lingered near one another during football games and always looked for one another in the end-of-day throngs that filled the flat, grassy area outside of their school. To their friends, this wasn't odd behavior-- Eddie and Richie had always been joined at the hip. It would have been weirder if they weren't-- but to the boys involved, it felt like a whole new era had begun, an era of longing looks and making excuses to be near one another.

Despite the changes he'd made into a seemingly well-rounded member of the student body, Ms. Kaspbrak was ever Richie's harshest critic. It was a role he was used to, one he'd even prided himself on, once upon a time. The closer the pair got, though, the harder it was to maneuver around her ardent dislike of him. Plans could be cancelled on a minute's notice if she got wind they were made by Richie, sudden doctor's appointments would arise inhibiting Eddie from joining in on their fun-- and it overall made being in Eddie's life a goddamn nuisance, even if he did get a little smug satisfaction from jerking her son off into her prized azaleas more than once under the light of the moon.

But planning a birthday was harder to do. A surprise even moreso. It was traditional for Eddie's party to be a lowkey affair. He was the most sheltered of them all, and the oldest, leaving the rest of the Losers to feel an odd type of way when it came to doting on him, being months younger than he was. But seventeen was a big year. Seventeen was the last hurdle before his official ties to Ms. Kaspbrak could be shattered like she'd never existed in the first place.

As far as Richie was concerned? They were riding off into the sunset as soon as they were both 18 and legally allowed to.

So this party had to be good. It had to be big. It might be the last one they all had together. So Richie managed to coerce their friends into playing along. A con that involved Mike and Ben playing up Ms. Kaspbrak's vanity, Stan and Bill emphasizing their need for her son, and generally just making Eddie's birthday a dire necessity for his friends to claim him for.

And meanwhile, Richie was in charge of being a distraction-- as usual. This time it took the shape of Richie dragging Eddie to a library and playing relentlessly stupid for hours until Eddie called out his shit and accused him of trying to keep him from his mother on his birthday. A fact which was, of course, wholeheartedly true.

"Come on, Eds, it's your birthday!" Richie cajoled. They were walking their bikes the way home, a handy excuse to spend more precious minutes together-- and Richie was demanding more still, practically body-checking Eddie to detour down the well worn deer trail that would lead to their underground fort. "Just an hour or two, man. That's all I'm asking for. If not in the library, let's just go to the fort, hang out and-- you know, talk, I guess, shit--" Of course it would sound shady coming from him, considering Richie was well known to be entirely incapable of keeping his hands to himself, where Eddie was concerned.

"Talk," Eddie repeats flatly, clearly not convinced, as he stands at the entrance to the deer trail. "You _know_ I didn't bring any supplies."

'Supplies' has become their sneaky little catch-all word for anything they would need for their trysts in the middle of the night. Lube, wash cloths, sanitation products-- Eddie was never without them, when he knew they were going to fool around. He was relentlessly on top of their shit, making sure they never left a trace behind, either in their surroundings or on one another-- well, save for those hickies that have never once left his thighs. It's gotten so much worse now that Eddie only really gives Richie the time to go properly to town on him over the weekend, he never undresses if they have a little play-around in the darkness in his backyard, so Richie always feels the need to refresh every bruise on his thighs and give him a couple new ones to boot. If his mother ever saw them, Eddie has no doubt she would combust on the spot, she'd be so upset. She'd think he was dying from some kind of allergic reaction.

"Yeah, well, we're just talking," Richie rolls his eyes dramatically as he continues to manhandle Eddie toward the underground fort, needling with his elbow, with his bike, crowding into Eddie's personal bubble way too much to be comfortable considering they were surrounded by intolerance. But today was't about that. The world was dark enough without Eddie reminding them all just how dark it could be-- and Richie fucking refused for _today_ of all days to be on that list, "You don't need your bag just to talk to me, right? I'll even keep my hands to myself, I promise. Look," Balancing his bike on his hip, Richie holds up both of his hands as if to prove the point-- he was going to be good. No touching. "Just let me sing to you at least, dude? You can't spend the whole thing with your mom, that's just fucking sad!"

Eddie's face scrunches up like it does whenever he's ready to argue, thick dark brows pulling low over his eyes and his mouth quirking up to one side, but when Richie just keeps looking at him with those big puppy eyes, he finally relents. He blows out a sigh, his eyebrows unfurling and his mouth spreading into a smile. 

" _One_ hour," he says, holding up one finger. "And then I _gotta_ go home. If mom doesn't get her requisite four hours of crying over me getting older, she'll move it to the weekend, you know it and I know it, and then where will we be? We'll have to call off the weekend date."

He doesn't remember which one of them was the first to call it a date, but it's what they call it now-- even though it's really two separate dates, Richie coming to him around midnight and the two of them staying out until five in the morning, both Friday and Saturday, most weekends. It's ten hours of uninterrupted time together that's almost always spent exclusively with their tongues down one another's throats, but sometimes they get a little conversation in, too.

"Yes! Sweet, you won't regret it," And by the time they get to the narrowing of the path, the little nook where the Loser's Club stored their bikes, Richie was the first one to tuck his bike away, going so far as to wade into the thicket of trees and forest to hide Eddie's bike, without the smaller boy even having to ask, a proper gentleman on this, his destined-to-be best goddamn birthday he'd ever fucking had.

So Richie keeps Eddie distracted with bright conversation and wild hand gestures, winding their way to the hideout even as the Sun begins to set on the woods, slivers of orange streaking through the branches and the canopy above. And good thing, too, because when they finally get to the clubhouse and Richie dives in first to help Eddie down, there's no way he could notice the orange light already filtering in through the slats in the wood. Which means when he eventually climbs down on his own-- a strong, independent man who didn't need no boyfriend to help him down-- he can be properly, appropriately, taken by surprise to find their entire group of friends waiting in the wings to yell, "SURPRISE!" 

A boombox started from the corner, the entire clubhouse strung with strings upon strings of lights, and the friends converge on Eddie, laughing and jeering, talking loudly about their long con while Richie looks on from behind them-- the others too distracted to see the pleased, adoring look Richie was openly giving Eddie as he was flanked by their friends.

They eat too many cupcakes and drink beers that Stan stole from his dad's "beer fridge" in the garage (assuring everyone that they're 100% kosher) and while Eddie insists he'll only drink one because he doesn't want to 'drive under the influence' (as if biking counts) he does get to impress their group with the bottle-opening trick Richie had taught him with the key, and he doesn't even barge in to take credit for it, either-- though Eddie does give him a soft-eyed look from across the bunker as their friends try to replicate the gesture. Ben is the only one who manages to get it right. 

They play a bit of pokemon on their handheld games, and sing far too loudly to whatever CDs they play, and it doesn't occur to Eddie even once that this will probably be the last birthday he spends with everyone as a group. Having one of the last birthdays of the year, when they graduate next year, it'll be long before november. Everyone might scatter to the wind before they have a chance to celebrate his 18th-- but he doesn't think about that, now. It's something that'll keep him awake at night a few times over the next year. 

They end the night laying in a circle on the ground, shoulder to shoulder directly under the open hatch so they can look up at the stars past the tree canopy, just basking in one another's company, when Eddie breaks the silence. 

"Do you guys ever still think about Pennywise?" he asks, squinting up at the sky. "Is it weird that I don't think about him that much anymore? That summer was fucking _crazy_ and I-- I barely remember it. Sometimes I think it didn't even happen, it's too insane."

The question raises an immediate, uneasy silence, Mike hissing a breath alongside a chastising, "Man..." Followed by Stan's stoic refusal. Bill doesn't say anything, no doubt thinking about the younger brother he had a hard time doing _anything_ without thinking about, and Ben stares resolutely at the stars, as if hoping someone else will fill the resulting, tense silence that follows. And fortunately for them all, Richie isn't one to disappoint.

"I mean-- yeah," he says, without reading the room. He never does. "Every time we get older, right?" Richie raises his arms to pillow his head with his hands, giving him ample excuse to nudge Eddie's head with his elbow under the guise of just not knowing his wingspan yet. He continues, filling the silence that no one else cared to jump in on. "'Cause like, our parents couldn't see him, right? They couldn't see any of the shit that he did. You guys said Bev's bathroom looked like she'd exploded everywhere--"

"Rude and gross," Ben chastises Richie's loose treatment of the absent girl, but Richie continues as if he hadn't been interrupted at all.

"-- So like, why didn't her dad see it? Unless adults just can't. Which means there's gotta be a cut off for us, too, right? I mean, shit, Eddie here's _almost_ old enough for his balls to drop. He's probably gonna get a hair on his chest any day now," Richie smacks Eddie affectionately in the chest, cackling like a hyena. It was no secret that Eddie was the late bloomer of their group, despite being the oldest. Hell, even Bill was sporting some awkward facial hair occasionally, and Richie seemed to only be growing into himself more and more, "Maybe one day we won't even be able to remember It, too." Honestly, it would have kind of been the ideal. Richie wasn't exactly looking forward to making good on the promise they'd made so many years ago.

"You think so? I hope so," Eddie says, rolling over onto his stomach. "I'm ready to forget. It, I mean-- not you guys." It's an irony he won't even have the memory to cringe at, one day.

As much as Eddie would have liked the chance to spend some amount of his birthday alone with Richie in the special way, he doesn't regret spending the night with his friends, and he still manages to sneak a kiss at the bottom of the ladder before he climbs up, with Richie at his tail. He returns home to a fussing mother who, predictably, hugs him and cries through an entire movie-- the same movie they watch every year on his birthday, and have since he was little. It bores him now, but it's a tradition that's important to his mom, even if he's managed to maintain less and less patience for her sobbing over the years. 

He spends most of it daydreaming, anyway. He has precious few weeks to lord over his friends (namely: Richie) that he's a number older than them, before Mike catches up first in December. He'll be able to continue holding it over Richie until March, and so that's his finish line for turning the tables and finally making good on a fleeting promise he made to reciprocate the rough, passionate fucking that they eagerly participate in every weekend since that first time.

The only problem is that every time they get together for the weekend, Richie is so enthusiastic about putting his hands on Eddie, that he usually just goes boneless and lets Richie do whatever he wants to him. He'd probably roll over and put his head in the dirt if Richie asked him to, he's so pliant for the boy. He keeps thinking about it in his off time, the way it'll feel to finally flip the script, but then when he actually gets the time to try, it's like his carefully prepared plan just falls through his fingers like sand. Well, not this time. This weekend is going to be the one, it's going to happen. It'll take preparation ahead of time-- it always does, if he wants things to go smoothly. 

The first step is returning to the bunker, which is there it'll happen. The spiders come out in the middle of the night, but he lights citronella candles ahead of time, which gives the place a warm orange glow and a bright citrusy scent, and an unintentional but very welcome romantic atmosphere. He stashes a bag full of Supplies so he won't have to hug it to his chest on the handlebars of Richie's bike (since he'd rudely 'lost' the back wheel spokes he'd gotten for him early last summer) and he even let Richie pick the friday night date spot so he could work all of his antics out and get it out of his system, so he could take the floor tonight. 

When Richie appears at his window, he locks the door and climbs out as usual, and tells him he wants to go back to the bunker. It's an unusual request for him, so squeamish about the spiders usually, but Richie doesn't question it. Alone in the woods together is a wonderful place to be, and Eddie's heart is pounding with excitement in his chest the whole way there, eager to see the look on Richie's face when they arrive.

To say Richie is excited about tonight would be an understatement. He'd hated sharing Eddie over his birthday, had hated the lockdown that his mother had initiated in retaliation to it-- not that she'd called it that. She never called it that. She'd always just 'heard of a new strain of virus' or something that took a week or two to dissipate-- but now that she was finished with her temper tantrum and they could be together again, Richie was excited to properly celebrate somewhere private and secluded. It wasn't his bedroom, but it was almost close enough.

Richie talked brightly the entire way there, intentionally taking the long way for no other reason than the enjoyment of having Eddie on his handlebars, a hair's breath away. By now he was a pro at balancing on Richie's handlebars, and Richie a pro at keeping him there. They could laugh and talk and jeer, and Richie could even grow a little bold and blow warm breath into Eddie's ear just to watch him squirm without risking either of their lives. 

"Did you leave something here or something?" Richie asks as they reach the fork in the path to dismount and stash his bike. He lets Eddie off first, ever the gentleman, before un-straddling his own seat and walking his bike to his favorite cluster of bushes and depositing it without much care, hopping out of the bushes and heading to the clubhouse, pausing only once he opens the door and finds light coming from the inside. 

He immediately ducks, casting a worried look to Eddie, "Hang on," He whispers urgently and closes the door, heart leaping into the throat. What were the chances someone else had brought a girl here? Maybe Bill had finally decided to seal the deal with someone, maybe Mike was getting his game on with one of the many girls who fancied him. Ben and Stanley were pretty much guaranteed virgins, but Richie couldn't put it past them to hang out without them.

"Relax," Eddie brushes right past him and opens the wooden hatch a second time, where the orange light had been shining into the black night, and makes his way down into the bunker first, his heart _living_ up in his throat at this point. 

"Holy shit, Eddie, are you fucking kidding--" Richie hisses furiously, wincing and waiting for the inevitable screams of their friends, or... of Eddie seeing a boob for the first time.

Eddie had already dragged the old mattress down off the wall as part of his preparation, and even brought a clean sheet to lay on it to keep either of them from actually having to touch the dirty old thing. He immediately takes a seat on it, cross-legged in the middle of the cushion as he waits for Richie to climb down after him, his bag of Supplies sitting right beside him on the bed. 

Tonight it was _happening_. He wasn't going to let Richie distract him-- he was barely gonna let the other boy _touch_ him. Everything had always been about Eddie, Richie would always defer to him and whatever would make him feel good, but tonight Eddie is determined to reciprocate, or fucking die trying.

When no scream comes, Richie pauses, frowning down into the clubhouse before crawling in after Eddie like the ultimate walk of shame, and he's immediately surprised by what he sees. Whereas the clubhouse had been engulfed in brightly-colored twinkle lights for Eddie's birthday, whatever the kids could steal from their parents' Christmas decoration sets, all that had been taken down the day after the little party, so the glow was something entirely different-- what looked like 6 massive oil candles, burning with thick clouds of smoke that smelled heavily of perfumed jasmine and... orange? Were they citronella candles? 

Richie had to laugh once he realized that Eddie had planned this-- and probably bought the small, Derry hardware store out of all their best candles just for the effort. Richie turns to Eddie, wolfishly grinning, arms crossing over his chest, "Alright, Kaspbrak, I get it, now," He says slyly, "This was for the party, wasn't it?" Richie slowly makes his way over, each step intentionally, agonizingly slow to draw out the moment, until he's practically looming over the smaller man, sitting so primly on the mattress. 

"Y'know you didn't have to do all of this. I coulda fucked you in the grass under your window, too--" Richie's knee lands on the mattress, and he quickly goes to close the space between them, hungry hands and heart and soul insatiable when presented with the opportunity to ravage Eddie.

Eddie catches him by the wrists with both hands, smirking up at him before they have a chance to make contact with his body, and then hooks a foot behind Richie's knee. With just the right amount of well placed pressure caving in his leg and a tug on his arms and just a little momentum, Eddie swings him around so his back hits the mattress, and Eddie's the one on top. Richie opens his mouth to protest, but Eddie releases one of his hands to put a finger to his lips. 

"Shut up, for once," he says, his tone and expression both affectionate as he does, and he leans out over the other boy to give him a kiss as he carefully removes his glasses and sets them aside.

It's hard because there's definitely so much he wants to say. Richie's mouth opens, then closes ineffectively when Eddie's words ring in his ears. It wasn't very often that Eddie wanted to take command, but it was usually when he had a very specific hunger he wanted filled-- and who was Richie to reject one of Eddie's fucking fantastic blowjobs? So he kisses Eddie back, even if it is a bit too chaste for his liking, only pulling away when Eddie does and squirming to get comfortable on the mattress when he does it. 

"You gonna ride my face again?" Richie asks, unable to help himself. It's really an awful habit. He literally can't shut the fuck up, "You can just break my glasses, it's been a minute, I'm sure my parents won't mind--"

"I _said_ shut up," Eddie says affectionately as he unties Richie's shoelaces and pulls off his sneakers, tossing them to the ground beside the mattress, and then reaches up to undo the button of his jeans and pull them down his legs, along with his boxers. He's gentle in his undressing, caressing down the length of his legs, which have gone thick with dark hair over the last few years in a way Eddie's still haven't. He leans out over him to slide his hands up under his shirt, and tugs it up off his head, and then all of a sudden he's completely naked on the mattress, laying underneath the smaller boy. 

Eddie can't remember a time that Richie has ever been completely naked. Hell, even _Eddie_ doesn't get totally naked too often. They don't usually have the time, or the security to get completely nude, just in case they're caught and have to make a hasty getaway. They never have been caught, but they're still careful. In all that time, though, Richie has never been the one to get naked, he'd always exerted power and control in that way. Well, not this time.

"I'm gonna fuck you tonight," Eddie says confidently, sliding his hands up Richie's belly and chest, up the sides of his neck to cup his face in both hands. "That cool with you?"

Richie is about to say something when Eddie details his plans, and he suddenly finds himself drawing short, his mouth shutting from whatever he was going to say with an audible click of his teeth. Whatever he'd been expecting to happen, that certainly wasn't it-- mostly because Eddie hadn't even tried to breech the topic since their very first time, and there'd been... a lot of times since then. Richie hadn't given it much thought because he was happy to serve at Eddie's every beck and call. But now Eddie was asking. And the ball was in his court.

"Uh," he says, and Eddie can see the mottled red blush that begins to raise up his neck and jaw and cheeks. He can see Richie swallow and tighten, then release. Whether it was an effect of being so thoroughly stripped of his clothes or his role as the dominant party, it was hard to say-- but the combination of both was probably not helping Richie's efforts at composure, if his dumbfounded expression was anything to go by. Finally, he regains the ounce of dignity he had so he could actually answer. "You want to? Here? Now? _Right_ now? Did you-- hold up," Richie pushes up on an elbow, sparing another look at all the candles, the clean sheet spread over the mattress Eddie had previously said he wouldn't be 'caught dead' sleeping on, "You planned all of this to fuck me?" He sounds a little touched when he says it, really.

"Yeah. That okay?" Eddie says as he turns to open his bag of Supplies. Since their first time, after they'd quickly exhausted through the supply of travel lube he'd grabbed from the basket in health class, Eddie actually saved up enough money to buy actual lube in a real bottle, and now he sets that aside on the ground beside the mattress. "I brought condoms again, in case you want me to wrap up, that's really up to you."

He also pulls out a box of latex gloves and a wash cloth, a spray bottle, soap and hand sanitizer, the kind of always used when he sucked Richie off. He always insisted on cleaning him first, and at this point it was just part of the foreplay.

"I mean-- no, right? You're still not off fucking other guys, are you?" Richie laughs when he says it, not really giving it much thought. He would have noticed if Eddie was fucking anyone else-- mostly because Richie had never given him enough _time_ to fuck anyone else. He was pretty hands-on, even with the banishment of school nights looming over his head. 

With an apprehensive eye, Richie watches Eddie methodically unpack his bag. How stupid was it that he felt his cock jump just at the sight of the soap and water? Eddie was really fucking with his kinks in a pretty uncool way. Fortunately, he was mostly sure they were localized for Eddie, not a general... kink. Hopefully.

Dragging his tongue over his lower lip, Richie clears his throat as he squirms into the mattress again, trying to get comfortable and having a difficult time, thanks to nerves. It's taking all the chutzpah he's got not to cover himself like a modest pioneer woman. "You know what you're doing down there, sport?" He asks instead to keep himself busy, laughing a little breathlessly, "Don't want you to get lost."

"I think I've got the gist," Eddie says as he rubs a bit of hand sanitizer onto his hands, until they're dry, and the smell of alcohol is sharp for a few moments past the heavy aroma of the candles. Then he uses the water bottle to spray Richie between the legs, something he'd learned ages ago was much more effective than just dumping out a bottle of water and hoping for the best. He squeezes some of his favorite antibacterial hand soap into his hands and lathers them together to make it foamy and soft and warm, and then sets to work. 

At this point, the smell of this particular soap has a pavlovian response on Richie, to the point where even just smelling it on Eddie's hands after he washes his hands at home when Richie is visiting to help with a project is enough to get him half-hard. it smells floral and fruity in a wholly unmasculine way, but it suits Eddie perfectly, just a little bit sharp and cutting at the end. Once his hands are well-soaped, Eddie wraps one hand around Richie's cock and dips the other between his legs, getting some of the lather on his inner thighs as he lovingly rubs the soap behind his balls, across his perineum, and even into his ass crack. 

His fingers are everywhere, rubbing and kneading and grinding, and one look at his face you'd think is is the most serious task he'd ever undertaken. His brows are furrowed hard in a look of concentration as he watches his hands, taking extra care directly behind Richie's balls and in the seam between them and the base of his cock, even more careful to be delicate with the head. It's never exactly been a hand job-- but it's not _not_ a hand job, either.

Richie takes a slow, steadying breath in through his teeth. Draping his arm across his eyes, Richie is cloaked in darkness that does nothing but intensify the touch with mystery. Unable to see the way Eddie's hands were moving, it was impossible to infer where they would be next, which meant every touch was a pleasant surprise that shot shivering jolts of adrenaline deep into his fingers and toes, making him feel every bit like he'd touched a live wire with his bare hands and lived to tell the tale. 

It's especially those touches to the crease, his balls, and his taint that has Richie gasping into the open air of the clubhouse. His thighs clench, twitching and releasing as Eddie works his way down the line of his cock. Of course he knew what this all felt like in theory, guided by his own hand-- but theory and reality were such different monsters, it was hard to believe that he was experiencing it now for himself. And he really couldn't explain it, true to the words of a fucked-out past Richie. 

"The fucking... soap... man," Richie groans as his hips arch off of the mattress with the rest of his back, hips raising in the air and thrusting into that smooth glide of later, making the entire boy groan and huff a heavy breath out through his cheeks.

"Good?" Eddie sounds a little bit smug as he says it, he knows it's good. It's always been good, Richie has come a long way from his initial teasing of Eddie for wanting to clean him up before he goes down on him, at this point it'd take him twice as long to get hard if Eddie just touched his dick without the soap. It's the experience of it all, the way the soap smells, the way it feels, the spritz bottle rinsing him off after, even the texture of the wash cloth. 

Which comes to him now, more water sprayed over his quickly-stiff cock and the soap is dutifully wiped away until he's shiny and clean and soap-free. Eddie sets the wash cloth and spray bottle aside, and dries his hands off before taking Eddie by the cock again, just running his fingertips over his skin in search for damp patches or soap he'd failed to clean up, and finds none-- all part of the process. 

"Don't worry if you cum quick, by the way," Eddie says once he's satisfied, wrapping his hand around Richie's dick right under the head, and grinds his thumb into the tip. "I wanna see if I can get more than one out of you like you do me, anyway."

"Seriously?" Richie asks, and his voice breaks when he does. It's hard to tell whether he's incredulous over the gall of Eddie to work him over so thoroughly, or if he's astonished Eddie wants him to cum more than once. It shouldn't be a surprise, considering Richie makes it a personal fucking mission to make Eddie go on a marathon of orgasms whenever Richie gets his hands on him.

It's mostly those words leaving Eddie's mouth. As casual as talking about the weather, Eddie's voice saying the word cum certainly did things to the larger boy. He was so proper, so polite, it seemed absolutely out of character for him to say it even if he did when he was in the throes of it-- but now? It was so professional, so clinical-- Richie had to stop focusing so much on Eddie's fucking voice. 

His cock jerked in Eddie's hands, punching a low groan from Richie as he tips his head back into the mattress and shuts his eyes tightly, hands fisting their way into the sheets and tightening there. "You're such an asshole-- holy shit--" He doesn't mean it, never does, but the clinical way Eddie's fingers grind into him makes his entire pelvic floor jerk into his palm, thrusting like a fish caught on a line. He bites back another moan and squirms, jaw clenching.

Eddie just grins, and leans over to first slip one latex glove on the hand he'll be fingering Richie with, and then grabs the bottle of lube. He pops the cap open with his thumb nail and drizzles some into one hand. He rubs his fingers together to get them slippery, and collects Richie's precum in his other hand to stroke down the length. He leans over to spit right onto the head like Richie has done so many times into his ass, and uses that to help wet the shaft, the glide of his hand slowly becoming smoother and silkier as Richie's body supplies more pre. 

"Have you ever played with yourself here?" Eddie asks as he reaches between Richie's cheeks to massage his slippery latex fingers against his hole. He doesn't enter yet, just rubs and grinds his fingertips against the furl, getting it wet and shiny so the orange glow from the candles catches on it when it flexes between deep presses of Eddie's fingertips.

Richie feels those fingers at his ass like an electric prod, his entire body tightening and fluttering around them even without him actually being entered. In truth, he'd never needed much to get his imagination going, and having anything down there-- with Eddie above him, looking so superior and smug and pleased-- was more than enough fodder to get him going. 

"Y-- uh--" Richie's back twitches as his hips cant just the slightest bit forward, his entire lower half softly buzzing with adrenaline as he seems to take a particular effort just to keep himself from acting up. He's trying to be good, Eddie could tell just by the way his entire body was tightened like a spring preparing to snap. "Yeah, dude, fucking-- fucking goddamn forever ago, before I got to-- _fuck_ \-- play with you, I just-- you're such a fucking dick, dude, you're fucking-- you could quit having so much fun, you know--" Ironic, considering how much outright pleasure Richie had made Eddie grin and bear. In comparison this was really nothing.

"I _really_ couldn't," Eddie says, grinning from ear to ear as he presses a single finger inside Richie. If he hasn't done it in months, he'll want to start him out slow, it's not like Eddie who gets fucked a couple times a week and whose hole has become something of a superhighway for Richie's cock. "Tell me about it, the last time you did it."

A noise is strangled out of Richie as, without warning, Eddie's finger presses inside of him. He hadn't been ready, he hadn't been anticipating it. He'd expected more build up, maybe more nerves on Eddie's side-- but maybe he should have expected that he would have made some kind of monster from his own taunting and teasing and insufferable, endless torment.

Eddie asks for conversation, as if he isn't a knuckle deep inside the other boy-- but honestly the conversation will keep _him_ sane from the two warring voices screaming inside him, one full of anxiety trying to tell him he's _dirty_ , that he's going to get sick for doing this even with the gloves and all the care he'd taken to make sure they were clean, the voice that he's doing everything in his power to ignore-- and the other just chanting a string of Richie's name in abject ecstasy as it contends with the feeling of Richie's insides clenching around his latex finger. He's so soft and warm and tender, and Eddie explores the space enthusiastically, twisting and thrusting that one finger inside the taller boy.

There's no way Richie could have anticipated this. The delicate way Eddie's finger curls into him, the feeling of being properly penetrated by fingers that weren't his own. It was different, entirely different, than his own hands. With himself, he could feel every aching muscle and every awkward angle, he could feel and think and know what was coming before it was coming. But Eddie was a rogue agent. He moved independently of Richie's brain and there was nothing he could say or do to think about what might come next. So he latches onto the probe for conversation, and does what he does best. He talks.

"I was-- uh--fuck-- w-we'd-- gotten back from the quarry and you-- fuck, _fuck_ \--you'd-- gotten pulled in still in your shirt and-- I'd seen your-- _fuck_ , Eddie--" Richie whines, turning his head to the side to tuck against his shoulder. "Your shirt. Could see through it. So I touched myself thinking about it and then I-- thought but what-- if---I'd fucked you and what I would-- do, so my hand-- _fuck_ \-- went lower, and--" His words dissolve into a whine. Hopefully it was good enough.

Eddie's eyes widen a little bit, his grin going a little crooked to one side. "Wait, wait-- you imagined _me_ fucking _you?"_

He can't help but bask in it a little bit. Richie has been such a dutiful lover since they started fooling around, dedicating every waking moment of their time together to bringing Eddie pleasure in every way he can get him to sit still long enough for. Deep fingering, eating him out, fucking him in half-- even when Eddie goes down on Richie's cock it's still _technically_ about Eddie, since he does it because it feels so nice for him, too. It isn't that he doesn't do it for Richie's pleasure, but it's not exactly like it's a _chore_ for him, he enjoys it just as much. 

So to hear that before they started fucking around, Richie was thinking about this moment, before he'd even gotten to lay a finger on Eddie... of course it makes him a little smug. He's earned some smugness, Richie's been _nothing_ but smug since they started.

"Shut up, dude, shut up--" Richie doesn't sound mad or even frustrated, but he does sound _embarrassed_ , like he would duck and cover his face with a pillow if he had anything to even act as one. But he doesn't, the mattress bare and the floor of their clubhouse suspiciously vacant of anything even pillow or blanket-adjacent. Probably Stan's dutiful cleaning. They were all a little afraid of the spiders that could hide out in the wood.

His protests are interrupted by his own moans, his hips raising as the heels of his feet find the mattress and dig in. Legs spread, Richie opens himself up to Eddie without meaning to, body betraying his words, overrun by the hunger in his gut and the heat rapidly making his cock swell to its full girth in Eddie's hand. _Yes_ he'd imagined Eddie fucking him. He'd imagined Eddie fucking him on and off since they were ten and he learned what fucking _was_ , before he even knew what it really entailed, and to actually have it be happening seemed... just shy of a dream.

"Well, in that case, I'm happy to oblige," Eddie can't help himself, he has to tease a little bit.

He makes up for it, though, with the sinful twist of his finger as it grinds deeper inside the other boy, and only when he's absolutely sure that he's soft enough to take it, he pulls back far enough to include a second finger. Eddie's hands are nowhere near the size of Richie's, his fingers aren't as thick or long, but they're more that enough to skirt past and tease his prostate, even if they aren't quite practiced enough to actually find the spot and milk it like Richie knows how to do by now. 

And then he makes up for the teasing even further by lowering his head and sealing his mouth over Richie's cockhead. He doesn't try to make a show of taking him deep-- in fact he doesn't try to take him at all, he keeps his other hand coiled around his girth just below the ridge of his tip and holds it there, his mouth attending only to the sensitive head with a rolling tongue and the occasional full, deep suck, the kind that forms a vacuum and makes a popping noise when he pulls off to grind his tongue against the slit again. 

It's getting easier and easier to ignore the anxious voice inside him telling him he's being dirty, as it's steadily drowned out and replaced by the sounds of Richie's frantic moaning. His voice had properly dropped over the past year, almost all notes of squeaking long since left behind, but his voice is definitely honking and breaking now as Eddie mercilessly twists into him. He might not have practice doing this sort of thing, but it has been done to _him_ often enough that he might as well be a pro. He knows how to mimic what's been done to him that felt so good he thought he could die-- and it seems like it feels the same, for Richie.

And it does. Jesus fucking Christ, it does. It's not very often that Richie is tended to like this. There's always usually some form of banter or back and forth, always some endgame that involves him pinning Eddie to the ground or mattress or tree or wall or anything and taking back every minute of stolen power by making him writhe and squeal and buck and moan. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel that involves something not about him. But this? This feels like gluttony.

Hedonism at its finest, Richie doesn't so much as raise a finger to try and grab Eddie and do with him what he will. He couldn't bother even if he wanted to, and all thoughts of flipping the script are so far away they could belong to another person entirely, someone not bound to the mattress by lust and twisting like a leaf on a breeze. When Eddie adds another finger Richie's head throws back and digs into the mattress, a moan escaping his mouth despite his clenched teeth.

"Rrrrrrrgh _\---_ _fuck_ , Eds!" He gasps, bucking his hips forward as those lips seal over his cock, but not enough to make it real. His cheeks hollow and Richie can feel the delicious pull of his mouth, but it stops far too short to be productive, good for making the blood pool in his cock and his balls tighten, but not good for actually making him cum-- 

At least, not until his tongue grinds into his hole and that second finger seems to twinge that spot inside of him as if by accident, and then Richie spills directly into Eddie's face and hand without a word of warning. His pleasure hits him like a fucking freighter, his mouth opens in a shout, and Richie cums hard and fast, enough to leave his body twitching and jerking residually, gasping for air.

It surprises Eddie, how fast he cums-- but then again, he's been known for a quick shot or two when Richie's fingers are inside him. That spot really is a magic fucking button, after all. Though he's surprised, he takes to it like a champ, sealing his mouth over Richie's cockhead to let him cum across his tongue, audibly swallowing to finish him off, until Richie is left panting and twitching. 

"Wow," Eddie sounds reverent as he pulls back, still holding Richie's dick, his fingers still planted inside him to the knuckle. He spreads them to test how soft Richie's rim has become, and it spreads easily for him, so easily that he fits a third finger into him and twists his wrist to screw them in like he's trying to install a fucking light bulb, stirring up Richie's tired muscles with a drag of those fingers all the way inside him. He feels Richie's cock twitch in his hand as he does it. 

"Don't go soft," he says, like Richie really has a _choice_ , but then again it almost seems like he does when Eddie spits on his cockhead again and drags his hand down his length in a few rough, dirty strokes. He's oversensitive nearly to the point of pain, but those fingers inside him work magic over his prostate to milk another weak jet of semen out of him that Eddie just uses to enhance the silky slide of his hand over his dick.

The secondary, miniature orgasm makes Richie whimper painfully, not enough energy in him after his first one to put up a proper fight. It was less a full-body orgasm and more a residual milking of whatever had been built up in the chamber, the cum that Eddie drags from his head little more than whatever was left in him after round one. 

It does what Eddie was planning, though. It drags a bone-deep weariness into Richie's body that promptly takes out whatever fight he had left in him. He's boneless against the mattress, legs still raised purely by the act of gravity keeping his heels pinned to the mattress. And yet still Eddie moves inside of him and above him, the third finger earning Eddie little more than a tight, breathy gasp of his own name as Richie's back arches to the ceiling, "Holy-- holy--" He didn't elaborate on just what was holy, but with the way Richie was saying it, Eddie was.

As unlikely as it was, too, it would seem as if Eddie's command would actually go heeded-- because before his cock even has a chance to go fully soft in the other boy's hand, there's twitching across the organ and the heavy vein along his underside tightens with his balls, blood and heat pooling in his gut in time to those three fingers prying and working him open. He's slack and loose around them now, no strength in him to resist, which means he can feel every last grind of his fingers against his walls, every last curl of those digits as they press and work him open, mercilessly.

"Wow..." Eddie says again as he watches Richie twist on the sheets, overwhelmed with pleasure. He knows where Richie is right now, what a fuzzy place his brain is in-- he's been there a hundred times himself, thanks to Richie. He's more than familiar with the brainless, boneless pleasure that comes from being fucked like this, but he's never been able to see himself in that state. Watching Richie now is like looking at a mirror. No wonder Richie always looks at him like he's the whole world-- that's how he can feel himself looking at Richie, now. 

He's not nearly as big as Richie is, so he doesn't know if Richie will even like it as much as he likes it when the other boy fucks him... but he hopes it doesn't suck, at least. He pulls his fingers out, wet and sticky, and uses them to stroke over his own cock, before deciding it's insufficient. He pulls off and discards the glove off to the side, and drizzles a bit more lube on himself. He hisses slightly at the cool temperature on his heated skin, as he shuffles forward to put himself between Richie's legs, his cock arching out through his open fly. 

"I'm gonna go in now, okay?" he says, sounding just a little bit nervous, desperately afraid to disappoint.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah--" Just the warning of the inevitable fucking coming was enough to strike a chord of life back into Richie's exhausted brain, like lightning striking home and revitalizing what little motor function he had left in his body. All over again, Richie gets excited and eager. His feet dig into the mattress, his body squirms low to get comfortable-- he feels his own cum rapidly cooling across his belly, and he decides to ignore it until there was more, an entire fucking pool of his own cum if that was what it ended up being-- no point in cleaning up if Eddie was just going to wring more out of him, anyway, and that seemed to be exactly what he had planned.

Reaching up, Richie's finally breaks his no touching rule to grab at the collar of Eddie's shirt, pulling him in to look at him properly, to get close and personal even if he doesn't seal their lips together like he obviously wants to-- "You gotta look at me. Look at me when you do, okay? Just look at me," Richie says it like a demand, but his eyes say it's more of an ask, the nervous, thready hammering in his veins enough to make his breath come quick and leaves just as fast. 

"I can do that," Eddie says breathlessly, trying to stay focused after Richie yanked him so effectively, reminding Eddie hotly of the disparities in both their size and physical strength. He has to stay focused. 

Keeping one hand on Eddie's jaw, Richie's opposite curls around his arm, nodding quickly as the time goes on between them and his hole is left fluttering without substance, "Okay but you gotta do it now, man, 'cause I'm really-- you've really got me-- you know-- I'm--" Horny. Desperate. Wet. Nervous. Horny. _Horny. **Horny.**_

Eddie just nods, swallowing hard. He grips himself by the base to guide his cockhead to Richie's hole, and then holds his breath as he pushes inside. 

There had been a part of him that was sure he wouldn't even be enough to stretch Richie, that it would be like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. He'd been so afraid that he wouldn't be able to satisfy the other boy, that he would embarrass himself or worse, disappoint Richie. But as soon as he presses inside, he feels the other boy's walls clamp around him on all sides, feels him push out in all directions to make room inside his lover, and all the breath is punched out of his lungs in one hard strike. He curls in on himself on top of Richie, and though he'd told Eddie to look at him, he can't help but squeeze his eyes shut. 

"H-- holy shit, dude," he wheezes, grimacing in pleasure as he bottoms out inside Richie, already panting despite doing so little. "You-- you-- that's-- you-- fuck--"

"Fuck yes, _fuck_ yes, holy shit, fuck- fuck-- _fuck_ \--!" Every word that Richie had bitten back before seems to come tumbling out of him, all at once, like a torrential downpour. He'd been practically mute through the rest of their tryst, Eddie having to claim victory based on the tightly controlled moans and and the twisting of his body, reading between the lines to understand the true depth of what Richie was feeling.

There was none of that now. Richie's mouth pops open as Eddie begins to seat himself inside, his lips shiny and red and wet. His eyes flutter shut despite his begging plea to be looked at, and the hand on Eddie's jaw goes entirely slack anyway, fingers barely skipping across his cheek. Their hips slot together finally, after what feels like eons of agony, and Richie's eyes open, unfocused and hazy. 

The stretch, the burn, the sensation of being filled-- Richie can barely stand the way Eddie feels inside of him, fucking massive and entirely unique to fingers. It feels deeper now, more personal. It makes Richie's heart swell and flutter in time with his cock, draped against his hip and twitching off of his skin at long last. "Move-- move, _move_ , it's so much better if you move, man, you gotta--" 

Eddie nods and pulls back, grimacing once again at the feeling of his cock dragging against Richie's tightly-clenched rim, but it feels twice as good to push back in again. He can feel lube soaking into his jeans, so he shoves them further down his thighs, and then picks up one of Richie's long legs over his shoulder just to hold it out of the way, unintentionally deepening the connection in the process when he thrusts back inside. 

Much like the first time he was entered by Richie, Eddie finds himself almost unable to move at first, the pleasure is so overwhelming. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, his hips stuttering and unsteady, every time their skin collides the breath is knocked out of him all over again. It takes him a handful of messy thrusts before he starts to get the hang of it, aiming for the same spot every time. The drag of skin against skin has his head spinning around the room, and if it wasn't for Richie's limbs all caging him in, he's sure he would just float away on this cloud of pleasure. 

"Holy-- _shit_ \--" he gasps. He knows exactly what Richie's feeling, but he never knew what this side felt like. He'd thought it couldn't possibly feel as good, nothing could be better than getting fucked face-down into the grass-- but jesus tapdancing christ, he was wrong. His thrusts start to pick up speed, his back arched up and his forehead resting against Richie's collarbone, panting against his chest. He can barely hold himself up, he feels feeble he's so wracked with pleasure.

Open and agonized, Richie's head tips back as Eddie tips forward, a bellow from deep in his gut filling the clubhouse as Eddie begins to build a rhythm. It was a quick, brutal clip, urged by hunger, by the primal urge to breed: he knew that feeling well. This was new, though, the opposite side of the coin. He's never had an issue with the concept of being on the bottom, had always fancied trying it. Never would he have thought he'd want to get bred like a dog in the process. 

But that's where Richie finds himself. His legs spread around Richie's body, his opposite leg curling around his hips and landing heavily around them, the other propped on his shoulder. Their bodies strike deeper together, pulled close by Richie's heel, by his hands scrabbling for purchase on Eddie's shoulders. They find it, fingers digging heavily into his arms, his hair, anywhere he can grab and pull to bring the smaller boy closer, to urge them together as the wet sound of them fucking fills the air. "Fuck, _fuck_ \-- yeah-- you feel-- your dick, dude-- your _dick_ \--" It's perfect. It's the best. It's amazing. Every adjective works. Every compliment applies. Richie rolls his hips hungrily down to meet Eddie's thrusts, burying himself to the hilt every time Eddie tries to retract.

Desperate to thrust harder now that he's found the rhythm, but unable to get the right leverage pinned chest-to-chest with Richie, Eddie untangles himself from the other boy and sits upright, hooking his hands behind both of Richie's knees. He pushes them up towards his chest and spreads them to either side of his rib cage, holding them there by force as he leans his full weight on the backs of those thighs. Looking at them now, Eddie can understand why Richie always dutifully puts bruises along his legs-- they look so pale and incomplete without the bruises he's come to appreciate almost as a biological part of his own body. 

He looks down to actually _watch_ his cock disappear into Richie, and the sight alone nearly does him in. He snaps his hips forward, their skin properly clapping together with the force now, Richie bouncing on the mattress under him. He's not as big or strong as Richie, his height doesn't give him enough leverage to work with-- but he certainly doesn't lack enthusiasm. 

"Oh shit-- oh my god-- jesus fuck you're so-- _tight_ , dude-- fuck, _fuck_ \--" he squeaks, his voice cracking in his throat. "I'm not gonna last real long-- you-- it feels too good, dude, holy shit-- how do you-- make it last, I'm-- _shit!"_

There are words being said, but Richie sure as shit can't understand what they were saying. Through the hungry moaning, the paining, the desperate huffs of breath torn from them both like someone was actually stealing from them. Richie feels outside of his body as he's pushed in on himself. The angle cuts off his lungs in a dangerous way he doesn't know if Eddie is even aware of, his face going flushed as he begins to hear a dull roar in his ear caused by the sudden lack of oxygen and blood getting to brain. It turns the pre-existing blush on him to a pretty, deep red-- and fortunately he can still breathe, as evidenced in by the loud keening moan he gives when Eddie's cock begins to slap into his hips with fresh drive, like he was trying to climb inside Eddie's skin.

"Don't worry about that, man, don't worry about it," Richie's voice is wet as he leans forward to curl his arms around Richie's neck. He leans forward to mouth wet, open-mouthed kisses across his jaw and cheek, and even up the bridge of his nose. Richie kisses anywhere he can reach, desperate for the contact, no matter how fleeting. He can- and _will_ \- take what he can get.

A bright pink tongue drags over his lip again, and Richie's chest heaves with the effort it takes to breathe normally again, after far too long without the ability, clinging onto Eddie for deal life, his fingers tight like a vice in his hair and at scraping across his scalp.

"Oh fuck-- OH fuck okay, okay okay okay--" Eddie babbles, and doesn't bother to pace himself or hold back. He feels his pleasure climb, but he doesn't want Richie to be left in the lurch, so he reaches down to grab and stroke his cock in time with his thrusts, milking him from both ends like Richie has done to him so many times. Sometimes the pleasure from receiving both at the same time will make him black out for a couple seconds, and he secretly hopes that it'll make Richie pass out too-- just so he knows how good Eddie is feeling when he does. 

There's no way Richie could feel more full, no way he could feel more than what he was already feeling. Eddie's cock splits him open like he's much bigger than he is, fingers always a poor substitute-- his walls stretch around him, his furl burns and tightens, and his legs go weak and soft when Eddie hefts them above his shoulders and begins to properly fuck him into the ground, the sound of skin slapping on skin striking chords deep into his chest and gut, enough to make Richie moan and claw at Eddie's back, scrabbling for purchase on his slick skin and finding none, then claiming it with his nails instead. There might be scratches later, but he'd think to apologize for it then.

"Eddie, Eddie--!" Richie cries, voice breaking at Eddie's curious, helpful hand around his cock. His entire body roars, his chest twists and tightens as his back arches off of the mattress, curling up and into the feeling as his hips stutter forward, doing his goddamn best to pulse between the two apexes of pleasure not burning into him-- and falling apart for his effort. 

Eddie's shoes dig into the floor at the end of the mattress, grinding into the dirt and giving him the leverage he needs to nail Richie to the cushion, and while he might not technically be very strong, it's still more than enough for him to make Richie feel it. He can feel it up into his throat, full up to his eyeballs, overflowing with pleasure-- and Eddie knows that, because he's felt himself make the same faces Richie's making now. 

He cums first, watching Richie fall apart under him, squeezing his hand almost too-tight around his cock in the process and leaning over him, bracing his free hand on the mattress beside his head. "Richie-- Richie oh jesus _FUCK_ \--" his voice breaks again, and he cums without warning, spilling inside of the other boy and fucking him right through his orgasm, prolonging and even intensifying the feeling by snapping his hips in spite of every muscle contraction that just wants him to stiffen up and go still.

Whether it was being filled, being fucked, or being stroked while Eddie cums-- Richie follows almost in unison. The hand tightens around Richie's cock, but not at the base, at the end, and his thrusts continue to jerk Eddie's hand along him in heavy, deep strokes, strong enough to make Richie's hips snap desperately forward, claiming a few strokes of his own before toppling over and releasing into Eddie's waiting palm, nails biting into Eddie's shoulders and head turning into the mattress so he can let out another gut-deep scream into the mattress, muffling himself before falling fully silent and absolutely boneless-- fucked unconscious, just as planned.

He's only out for a second or two, roused once more by the feeling of Eddie pulling out, and unzipping his bag. There's a gentle hand at his cheek, lifting his head, and a water bottle at his lips, which he takes a few sips from that only ignite his thirst, and chases it with several much deeper swallows. Then Eddie, as usual, sets to work. 

The wash cloth is rinsed and wetted with the spray bottle, and then wiped over Richie's belly to clean it from all the seed that had found its way there, followed by a tender swipe between his cheeks to clear away the stray lube and semen seeping out of him. He has an almost clinical expression as he works to clean up Richie, but when he catches his eyes, they're soft and tender. 

"Hey," he says, brushing Richie's long curls away from his face and then slipping his glasses over his ears. "You uh-- you still with me?"

"No," Richie answers without hesitation. His legs are still splayed open, his entire body soft and pliant and willing underneath Eddie's capable care. He doesn't even try to pretend he had modesty, either, unable to put together any goddamn will to care about what he might look like when he's almost positive he's had Eddie underneath him in worse condition. 

Still, his entire body twitches when Eddie wipes him clean and touches him at all, really, little shockwaves of pleasure emanating from those delicate points where he was graced with his fingers, his breath, even the familiar drag of washcloth on skin. It was enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Richie watches Eddie through heavy, half-lidded eyes, his voice rough even as he tries to swallow to negate it. It doesn't really work.

"How was it?" Richie asks with an entirely fucked-out, blissful smile, "Pretty good on this end. You fucking.... studied up, 'course you did..." It was him complimenting himself, really. Who else would Eddie study from.

"I would have had to astral project every single time you fucked me for the last year for me not to have studied up," Eddie says almost chastisingly as he begins to pack up his supplies back into the bag, tucking everything that needs washing into the front pocket so it stays away from all the clean items in the main space. 

But he turns a coy smile to Richie then, a little too smug to play the part of disaffected properly. He settles back between Richie's spread legs and rests his hands on his belly, rubbing them up and down across his chest and down his thighs, just touching him for the pleasure of being able to touch him. 

"Was it everything you daydreamed about while you fingered yourself?" he teases.

"Uh, well-- yeah--" Richie suddenly looks embarrassed, glancing away from Eddie like he wasn't entirely telling the truth. 

It wasn't that he was _disappointed_. Being fucked in half with Eddie overhead shouting his name and filling him with his cum was... definitely _part of_ his dream, one of his favorite dreams. He didn't really know how to tell Eddie the true depths of his daydreams, how badly he wished Eddie would whisper in his ear how much he was in love with Richie. That seemed probably like too much. Greedy. Selfish. Insatiable. It was kind of a miracle Eddie had managed this without allowing himself to be thwarted. His belly jumps and twitches under Eddie's hands, skin and nerves still hypersensitive and delicate, and he inhales shakily, deeply, raising an arm to wave the boy over to him, "Come here, man-- stop... being so fucking far away, the fuck's wrong with you--"

Eddie finally finishes packing his bag and then flops down on his back next to Richie, content only because the dirty mattress is covered by a sheet that's definitely going to need cleaning. He curls up on his side and pillows his head on Richie's shoulder with a small smile. He loops his arm across Richie's chest, relaxing in the soft orange glow of the citronella candles and luxuriating in the comfort of being held in the other boy's arms. 

"You know Richie," he breaks the silence to speak softly, watching the shadows of the candles dance on the ceiling of the bunker, and he isn't even thinking about how many spiders might be hiding up there. "I'm... really glad we've been friends all these years. Meeting you, getting so close, the way you fought to stay my friend even after mom went psycho like a hundred times... I dunno where I'd be without you."

Richie's gut twists deep in his belly at Eddie's words, and frankly he doesn't really know how to feel about it. Richie's arm curls around Eddie's shoulders, long fingers gently carding into thick, copper-brown hair, and for a second he lets the words hang while he desperately tries to check in on himself and make sure he's not fucking grimacing at what was surely supposed to be a nice sentiment. Even if it made him a little nauseous to hear him call them _friends_.

Ignoring the sudden hammer of his heart beneath his sternum, Richie swallows heavily and laughs a little heavily, a little forced-- but it could easily be explained away by the exhaustion over what they'd just done, the physical tone a fucking like that takes on a person. When he finally manages to get a goddamn grip on himself, Richie manages to laugh, tugging gently on the hair caught between his fingers, "Sure, dude," He says, and hopes he's being hypercritical when it comes out a little strangled, "That's what friends are for, right? You don't even wanna know what I do with Mike and Bill."

That startles Eddie into laughter, and he grinds his face against Richie's shoulder. "Yeah, Bill really seems like he's into ass-to-mouth."

"He loves it, you kidding? Sometimes I won't even wash up after you and he's begging to suck my dick," Richie smiles, ignoring the breathless, aching twist in his chest as he turns to roll on top of Eddie, looking down at him fondly. 

Richie just looks at him for a second, his eyes as impossible as ever to maintain any sort of poker face-- not where Eddie was concerned. Never where Eddie was concerned. He looks at Eddie like he's the only boy in the world, love and adoration making his eyes soft and almost sad, "I--" He tries to tell him again, tries to tell the other boy his true feelings-- but the fear of Eddie failing to say it back a second time keeps the words locked up and scared in his chest. So instead he just leans down, kissing gently across Eddie's jaw and down his throat, "I'm really glad, too, man," he mutters instead, muffled by Eddie's skin.

Eddie winds his arms around Richie's neck and just holds him there with a smile, content to lie in his embrace until the citronella candles almost burn down, and they have no choice but to return home. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the angst begins.......................

As it gets colder, it gets harder and harder for the two of them to find good places to hook up for their weekend dates, and the distance between them is felt keenly by them both. Eddie can't just drug his mom every weekend, as much as he wishes he could get away with it, and the snow that begins to fall prevents them from going to any of their usual haunts. It's just too cold for a romp in the woods or the club house, or even just to sit outside Eddie's window and talk. 

Which means that through the entirety of December and January, the two of them are barely able to spend alone time together at all. Not that they don't find time to be together, but if they are, it's almost always with the rest of their friends at someone's house, or in the library, or the arcade-- or somewhere else with doors to keep out the cold. Insatiable glances are shared constantly as they approach and pass Christmas-- and it's not like Eddie had much time for Richie anyway as he picked up a million odd jobs around town to pay for 17 Christmas presents for his mother-- as per their family tradition. 

Richie, at least, is given something to distract himself with, in the form of the dog he's been asking for nearly for ten years at this point, and Eddie is genuinely thrilled for him-- he knows how long Richie has wanted a dog, even if there is a childish stab of jealousy that it means Richie might like something more than him. He knows the fears will melt with the snow, when they're finally able to be together again.

Rex, the beagle Richie had been gifted, was an incredible distraction for the winter months-- and also a killer excuse to claim more freedom for himself. Although winters in Maine were barely tolerable, Richie still found time for Eddie, and always would. He stopped by his house on walks, him bundled in layers upon layers of jackets and the dog bundled in one of his own, feet carefully covered by 'boots' Richie had made out of his own socks and rubber bands. 

It was hard, those winter months without Eddie, stealing what time he could. The long expanse of winter break was easily the worst, where a month without school meant they didn't even have that as an excuse to steal a friendly word or share a commiserating glance. One particularly dry span of two weeks came to a head with Richie stealing Eddie away for a short walk-- and it had to be short, Eddie had to sleep to be up the next morning bright and early-- and crowding him into the public bathroom at the park, Rex stalwartly standing guard outside the stall while Richie shoved his hands up Eddie's shirt and tongue down his throat, just to remember what he felt and tasted like.

When the first 50 degree day reared it's head in early April, the Loser's club was quick to reconvene, and none rejoined quite as fast or as hard as Eddie and Richie. It was to make up for lost time, they rationalized, they were surely owed the time-- and Richie, as was his usual, took advantage of every minute they'd been gifted to dapple as many mementos of him across Eddie's skin as he possibly could.

And if his fingers bruised his hips a little too hard or his mouth make Eddie's thighs look more like a crime scene than the thighs of a living boy, well-- that was Richie for you, overzealous and ravenous to the very end.

As the days steadily warm up, they resume their weekend dates eagerly. Eddie even has the cover of one event during the winter months to thank in which he'd locked his bedroom door on a friday night without thinking, despite the fact that he hadn't actually any plans to leave with Richie that night, and his mother just happened to come by the door. She panicked and started knocking frantically, rousing him out of a light doze, and he answered the door to her crying, and brought her down to the kitchen to have a serious talk with her about being nearly an adult man, and needing just a little bit of space sometimes. She seemed to understand, even if it made her cry for over an hour-- she didn't remove the lock from his door or demand he stop locking it, at least. 

There had always been a little sliver of fear in the back of his mind that their weekend dates would be interrupted by his mother finding out he was sneaking out, but with her newfound respect of the idea of him locking his door, even that fear didn't discolor the spring months as Eddie and Richie finally fell into one another with enthusiasm. They were so eager for one another that sometimes they would even forget to be entirely discrete in public, though they would usually realize when they were sitting too close or smiling too fondly, and would quickly cover it up with a no homo joke and shoving one another aside.

If there had been any worries that Eddie or Richie would have lost interest in one another over the winter without their special weekend time to constantly reaffirm their desire for each other, they're completely eradicated over the spring. Eddie is just as insatiable as Richie, so much so that he even goes a little bit lax with his cleaning rules sometimes just to maximize the time they can spend with their hands on each other. 

But honestly what Eddie missed even more than the weekend dates were those week day nights where they'd sit in the bushes under the stars and just talk for a couple hours. He missed those nights desperately.

There's the ever-looming light of Summer on the horizon, and Richie doesn't even consider that it will be their last. He roars through the final bit of the semester, botching or passing his exams and letting whatever supernatural force work through him to determine his fate. Was it karma? Divine intervention? Destiny? Whatever force compelled Richie through the yearly end of semester dates, it left him with a C-average-- sure as shit good enough for him, even if it did make his parents furious. 

Rex had become a staple in the group, following Richie damn near everywhere he could. There was one particularly bright day where he'd even managed to break off of the stake his parents put him on during the day, and the dog had run the entire way across town to sit on the lawn at the school-- a fact he was only aware of when Eddie spotted him through the nurse station window and frantically called him to come see. 

Richie managed to convince Eddie to join him in taking the dog home, since he had the nurse's slip excusing him from class anyway-- and once there, they'd decided to take advantage of Richie's empty house while his parents were gone at work, Rex safely tucked away back inside the yard and his doghouse, placated with his owner's survival. Richie had to wonder if Rex knew what was going on when he overheard Eddie's barely-stifled howls coming from his bedroom. Unfortunately, Rex never answered when asked.

Every passing day or night spent together made Richie fall deeper and deeper in love. He hadn't dared to say it since the first time, couldn't bear the pain of being ignored again. But as time went on, Richie had a harder and harder time not hoping Eddie felt the same. After all, Eddie was just as exuberant as Richie. He didn't have to find little moments to slip notes into his palm, nor did he have to go out of his way to pack a little extra for Richie to have at lunch. They took care of each other, in whatever little ways they could-- and that counted for a lot.

It would have been storybook. It should have been, except for one fateful day at school, just a couple days before the end of the semester. It's a free-for-all gym class, the teacher too tired and too near to the end of the school year to care, and while Eddie had a note to sit out all gym classes because of his asthma, he often joined on days like this, just to sit out on the grass in the steadily-warmer late May. 

Looking back on it, the fact that it was a football of all things that ruined the start of their last summer together was more than a little infuriating. Eddie hadn't seen it because of the book he'd been reading in his lap, streaking across the field where two boys had been passing it back and forth. Richie had seen it, and shouted for Eddie to watch out-- but that only made him look _up_ , and the end of the football smashed into his face at terminal velocity. 

Eddie is knocked out cold, flat on his back, his nose broken at an angle that looks inhuman. Predictably, Ms. Kaspbrak is a fucking wreck by the time she makes it to school, to pick up the still-unconscious and concussed Eddie and bring him to the emergency room. A little extreme for a broken nose, perhaps, but none expected less from Ms. Kaspbrak at this point. A nose cast and stitches were given-- but then the doctors asked Ms. Kaspbrak about the bruises, and it was all over. 

She was on him like a hawk when he awoke properly at home, and he had no time to think. She was hysterical, and he had to come up with _something_ , even if his desperate attempt to cover still resulted in the worst news he could hope to hear-- being sent back to Camp Bibleventure for the first time since he was eight.

Unsurprisingly, Richie comes to him that night, but Eddie's head is pounding too badly for him to climb down the drain pipe, so he hisses for Richie to stay put through the window as he risks it all, tip-toeing down the very edge of the carpeted stairs where he knows they don't creak, and then slips out the back door to find Richie looking at him with mixed sorrow and amusement. He knows the nose cast looks pretty dumb, but it makes him feel dumber still for Richie to be giving him that sad, gleeful smile, considering the tone of the news Eddie has to deliver. 

"It's _not_ funny," he whispers, his voice incredibly stuffed-up thanks to the packing filling his nostrils, and Richie snickering only upsets him worse. "I'm _serious_ , Richie. This is _bad_."

"Oh, come on, you've had worse," Richie teases gently as he smiles down at him. His hand raises to take Eddie's chin between two fingers, tilting his head up, then left and right, inspecting the cast from what seemed to be every angle. The finger on his chin strokes him gently as he does, nothing cruel or demanding in the gesture-- and the look in his eye, as ever, bore nothing but adoration and affection, as clear as day, his poker face having gone missing somewhere around February. 

Leaning down, it looks like Richie plans to go in for a kiss, only to think better of it, not daring to disturb the cotton and gauze holding his face together, instead diverting to kiss Eddie's forehead, "Worst is that you're not gonna get to suck my dick for a while, right?" He mutters, voice low and salacious as he nuzzles Eddie's forehead with his nose, smiling wide as he does, "How long they give you? Two weeks? A month?" A click of his tongue came from his teeth, then, head shaking disapprovingly, just once. "You think you're going to be able to manage?" 

Richie keeps his voice down as he talks, well aware of the route through his house that Eddie had taken, opposed to their usual drainpipe-based escape plan. They'd have to be more careful than usual, would probably have to make this trip a short one, too. Mrs. Kaspbrak would probably be checking on him every hour, so Richie knew they'd have to be quick.. But at least it was Summer, and surely if Eddie got hurt at the beginning of the break he wouldn't get hurt seriously again by the end of it, right? That's how karma worked.

A gentle Summer breeze wafts through the air. It reminded Richie of quiet hilltops and stolen trips to the arcade, of the last Summer that already felt like a lifetime away. "Hey, seriously, Eds, it's okay. We have the rest of Summer to make up for it, y'know?" Richie is quick to reassure, feeling something more not-quite-right with the smaller boy.

"It's _not_ okay," Eddie feels tears fill his eyes now, Richie's comforting touches feel almost cruel, with the news he has to deliver, and he's in too much pain and way too high on painkillers to worry about being macho enough to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks. "Richie, they had to put me under to do surgery on my nose-- they saw the bruises on my thighs... they told my mom about them." 

His voice breaks into a pathetic little whimper as he says it, and he grabs and squeezes Richie by the biceps as he leans in to rest his forehead against the taller boy's chest, grief settling into him. In the long run, a month apart wouldn't be much in the grand scheme of their lives, but young and in love as he is, even one month away from Richie feels like the end of the world.

Richie's chest turns to ice, his entire body paralyzed with fear. They saw the bruises on Eddie's thighs. They saw the bruises and-- they'd told Eddie's mom. His eyes are wide, his brain cramped with too many thoughts all at once. Eddie is crying in his arms, leaning against his chest, and Richie doesn't even wrap his arms around him in return. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak, rooted to the spot with guilt and pain and absolute fucking terror. 

"They told your mom?" Richie asks, voice breaking. "What-- what's going to happen to you? Where are you going? She's not sending you away, is she? You're not--" He knew about the conversion camps. Kids had taunted him about being sent to one his entire life, and the vision of Eddie bound to a chair, electrocuted into nothing-- the thoughts immediately made his knees weak, nausea raising bile abruptly to his throat so hard he had to force himself to swallow it down.

He pulls Eddie away with firm hands on his shoulders, chest rising and lowering with barely-contained, hyperventilating breaths, "We can leave. We can leave right now. I'll pack a bag, you pack a bag-- we could stay in the clubhouse until it blows over, right? Your mom has to forget eventually, doesn't she? She'd be so glad you came back at all she'd take you right away--"

"The _clubhouse?_ Richie, no," Eddie shakes his head and pulls away to look at the taller boy as he realizes what Richie's afraid of. "I'm not-- I'm not going to gay camp. I told her a lie, but it had to be bad enough that she'd believe it... I told her I gave the bruises to myself. Said I've been pinching my thighs until they bruise because-- to stop myself from masturbating, because I was having sinful thoughts about girls at school. Wanting to have premarital sex... she's sending me to Bibleventure for all of June. To cleanse my eternal soul, or whatever..."

Richie looks at Eddie like he can barely understand what he's saying. His eyes are slightly wet, his face flushed, and the heaving of his chest stops altogether as he just stares, this new information processing slowly, but processing nonetheless.

"You're not going to gay camp," He repeats. If there was any doubt to Eddie over whether or not Richie was fully gay, that was probably all the confirmation he needed-- there'd been very real fear then, visceral and desperate, fight or flight fully engaged. "You're-- okay. Bibleventure. 'Cause you-- Eds, _why_ \--" 

"You _know_ why," Eddie says. He does know why, of course he knows why. The only other explanation would have been hickies, and saying he was already having premarital sex with a girl would definitely not have been better. 

"Okay. Well, uh-- well by the time you get back, y'know, you'll have the cast off, so-- maybe it's.. It might be easier to-- not think of sucking my dick if you're being sprayed with holy water or something--" It's not a very funny joke, but Richie makes it hoping to bring some sort of normalcy to the frantic sprinting of his brain.

Eddie groans, and rests his forehead against Richie's chest again. "I leave in two days. Mom wanted me to take tomorrow to rest all day... so I'm not even gonna be there for the last day of school... then the day after that, she's shipping me off... can you do me a favor and kill Hank Armitage while I'm gone? He has to pay with his blood for keeping me away from you for a whole month of summer..."

At least now Richie wraps his arms around Eddie like he should have from the get-go, before panic made him stupid and just a little bit crazy. Strong arms curl around Eddie's shoulders, his lower back, and Richie fits Eddie against him like the perfect puzzle piece he was. "Forget it, man, he's gonna step in burning dog shit for the rest of the summer. Or his parents will and they'll blame him," He mutters, burying his nose in the hair atop Eddie's head, breathing deeply and closing his eyes.

"What can I do?" He mutters, "I'd offer to give you a couple bruises for the road, eat you out or something, but if your mom catches us-- and can you even breathe? That, too, I guess..." He guesses, like breathing isn't that vital.

"Dude, I'm so fucking stoned I think I'd pass out before you got halfway done," Eddie mumbles, leaning his full weight into Richie, laying his cheek against his chest and wrapping his arms around him. "I'm probably not gonna get to see you at all tomorrow... you probably shouldn't even come by tomorrow night, mom's gonna get me up real early to take me to Bibleventure, so... tonight's the last time we're gonna see each other for a month, and I can't even _kiss_ you..."

He whimpers again, his arms going tight around his waist. "Maybe we could just... sit and talk for a bit? I'm scared. They didn't like me much at Bibleventure, the counselors were mean to me even before, but now-- mom's gonna have told them what I did. Or what I said I did... they're gonna be awful. The promise-ringers are gonna mock me... I'm gonna spend a whole month hearing about what a shitty Christian I am... "

Richie squeezes Eddie with his entire body, tight enough they could meld and become one if it was allowed by the laws of physics and humanity. One hand buried in his hair, Richie cradles Eddie to his chest with a serious, concerned expression twisted into place. He pulls away only briefly to give Eddie a very serious look, fussing with his hair and a piece of tape on his nose that was raising out of place.

"All due respect, dude, but fuck that," He says sternly, but sweetly, smiling closed-mouthed, as optimistic as he can manage, "You _want_ to be a shitty Christian, y'know? Christians suck. Fuck those Christians. All that matters is that you know where those bruises came from, you know what they mean. You got those bruises 'cause your fucking legs are edible and your b--est friend," Close save, "Can't keep his fucking hands off of you. Anything else they gotta say aside from that, you give them my address and tell them my door is open, we can talk. I'll train Rex to go for the dick."

That makes Eddie pause and think, with his cheek up against Richie's chest. _Does_ he want to be a bad Christian? His faith had been such an integral part of his entire life thus far, but it had never really been something he actively pursued. He just did it because it was what he was taught to do, and it was such a common part of his day to day life that he never questioned it. But he'll be growing up and moving out soon, he'll get to start making his own choices. It fits that it would be Richie, who would bring that into focus. 

He pulls back to look up at the other boy as he fixes the tape on his face, his eyes soft and full of adoration, like Richie is the only other boy on earth, and he reaches up to run his hands into his hair. God, but he loves this boy. 

"I'm gonna get a tan while I'm gone," he says, fluffing his fingers through Richie's curls. "If your parents finally bully you into a haircut while I'm gone, I'm divorcing you."

"Maybe you should, tick off all the boxes for sinner bingo," Richie teases devilishly, grinning. He shakes his head like a wet dog despite his hair being dry, curls fluffing up and falling over his face in a thick veil,which Richie smiles through until he manages to shake the hair out of his face. "But don't even sweat it, they won't be able to cut this bad boy if they try. By the time you get back, it'll be like Rapunzel, and you can just come over to my place and I'll let you up my hair." 

It's not cute or comfortable or long, but Richie can't help himself any longer-- leaning forward, he steals just one clumsy, medical-tape-tasting kiss, brief and chaste for both of their sakes. Richie wrinkles his nose, sighs and presses his temple against Eddie's, going quiet as his stomach seems to churn on accepting that Eddie was really about to be... gone.

He wonders how much he can say without crossing a line, but also wonders if there is a line, now. Eddie was going to Jesus Camp. The jig was up.

"I'm really going to miss you," Richie mutters softly against Eddie's cheek, still holding him. "Do you think you could leave your window open tomorrow? I know you'll be out cold, probably, but-- I wanna leave you something. And I don't wanna break your window to do it." He glances up, then, and his entire gut clenches when he sees that now-familiar sliver of cracked glass. Christ, it felt like forever ago.

"How about you flash the light and I open it, deal?" Eddie smiles despite the way it hurts his face to do so, and drops his hands from Richie's hair to his shoulders as he guides him over to their secret little hiding spot in the bushes with their backs to the fence. It's still cold enough that the ground feels frozen under their butts, but sitting shoulder to shoulder helps with the chill, as they talk about anything and everything to keep Eddie's mind off of camp-- and then a little bit about the camp specifically, strategies for dealing with jackasses that they both know Eddie will never go through with, but are fun to daydream about, anyway. Everything from the standard "your mom" jokes, to outright punching the other kid in the face. 

Eddie is still terrified when he has to head back into the house, too drugged up and tired to withstand more than a couple hours outside before he's dozing off on Richie's shoulder, but he feels a little warmer on the inside, at least. He knows Richie will be waiting for him when he gets back. If they could stand to be apart for the entire Derry winter, they could manage a single month of summer. It's not like Richie had any other options to oggle while he was gone, anyway, Eddie's pretty sure they're the only two queers in Derry. 

He gives the other boy another parting kiss that's a little awkward but very well-meaning, and then heads back up to his bedroom to sleep off the buzz until his mom will inevitably come by to give him more painkillers, and for once he's not going to cheek-pocket the pills.

Richie stands watch outside of Eddie's house for longer than he should have, obscured in the shadow of the large oak by the street. He watches Eddie's light turn on, then off, no doubt his mother loading him up with another round of pain killers for the night, and when he's certain Eddie is asleep he finally hops back on his bike, taking the long way home. Going straight there didn't seem right when this was time for him to spend with Eddie. Even if he wasn't here with him in body, he could at least be with him in spirit.

The next day, true enough, Richie doesn't see Eddie at school at all. There was only the back end of a week left in the semester, so it seemed cruel for his mother to keep him out of the end-of-year festivities, but she'd apparently recruited Bill to empty Eddie's locker in his name-- cruel in itself, implying Bill of all people might be able to see Eddie before he left. The other Losers opted to join the well-wishing party, but Richie, surprisingly opted out.

Their chances of seeing Eddie reduced drastically if he was in the party. He knew it and they knew it. Everyone knew it. And he'd said his goodbyes last night, so it was only fair to let them deliver the contents of Eddie's locker and do the same. He was sure Eddie would appreciate seeing them before he left, too.

And it's not like Richie doesn't get to see Eddie. Richie's already parked outside by the curb at 10pm when he sees the blue-white glow of Eddie's mom's TV in the kitchen flick off. She stayed up late when she didn't have Eddie there to remind her to take care of herself. Typical. But she seemed to finally get the picture as Richie tracks the lights in the house turning on, then off in procession.

Only when the light in her room turns off and the house has been quiet for close to an hour does Richie step forward to shine his flashlight dutifully in Eddie's room. He looks sad when the window pushes open, and can see a similar look twisted onto Eddie's face-- even if most of it is still obscured by gauze and tape. Richie holds up his hand in a sad, motionless wave, stepping from the shadows with bundle in hand. 

They have to operate in silence, and Richie can't linger today, either. He waits until the window is open, then gestures for Eddie to clear the area before underhand-tossing the small bundle in through the window. It was a little clunky, hitting the sill rather inelegantly, but it was made up of Eddie's favorite t-shirt of his, a little dirty so it was a little ripe like a boy, but Richie figured it added to the charm. 

Stepping away from the window, Richie crosses his arms over his chest and stands silently on the ground beneath Eddie, face turned up, mouth drawn in a painful smile while he tried to bite back tears.

Eddie unfurls the bundle and disappears from the window as he looks through all the items one at a time, unfolding the note and flipping the casette over to read the label, his chest feeling all warm the more he pores over the items. He doesn't know how much he'll actually be able to sneak this stuff with him, but he can definitely bring the shampoo and sweat band and tee shirt, at least. 

He returns to the window finally, with something bundled in his hands, and tosses it down to Richie in return-- and when Richie catches it in one hand, he's immediately hit in the face by Eddie's smell, and the sight of those sinful red shorts, gifted to him dirty no less. Eddie blows him a kiss from the window with a coy wink as he watches Richie's expression shift from confusion to realization.

Richie's eyebrows skyrocket to his hairline as he looks from the shorts, back to Eddie, then makes the gesture for 'blowjob?' with his mouth, his hand raising to his lips, tongue poking his cheek. He already expects the rejection before it comes, and Richie brings the shorts to his nose to smell gratuitously in front of him before he pulls them away, already feeling the wetness on his cheeks before he can stop himself. 

He brings his hand to his mouth. Lips to fingers, fingers to Eddie, he gives the boy one last kiss before waving a hand, shooing him away and back to bed, before this gets any harder than it has to be-- even if he makes no move to leave, either.

Eddie closes the window though it pains him to do so, and then crawls into bed, and cries silently under the covers. He hates the way this feels like a dramatic good bye, as if everything will be different when he gets back. There's a very real part of him that's convinced as soon as he goes to bible camp, the gay part of him will be burned out somehow by the light of God or whatever, and he won't even be in love with Richie anymore when he gets back. 

It's startling still, to realize that he's _in love_ with the other boy. Upsetting to look back on this moment later in his life and realize he'd still never said it out loud. Maybe if he had, they could have avoided all the unpleasantness that would come later in their lives. 

Camp, predictably, is horrible. He's put in a cabin with a lot of boys his age who are much taller than him, and find ways to belittle him all summer long, from the fact that he has no hair on his balls still, to the splint on his nose, to the fact that he'd been sent to camp for a masturbation addiction-- which wasn't even Eddie's cover story, but he wasn't about to justify himself to these boys or layer his lies on top of each other. He doesn't even know how they'd gotten enough of the story to extrapolate that much. 

If he'd been a little afraid he'd meet another boy who would challenge his love for Richie, he's more than a little relieved that he doesn't even come close. He doesn't even make a friend the entire time he's there. Many of the counselors who work there are the same ones he knew from a decade ago, and they have just as little patience for his "peculiarities" as they did back then, often making snide comments about how he should have "grown out of them" by now, and pushing his comfort zone with hygiene and safety by force, against his will, as an effort to "man him up."

It's a miserable four weeks, but he just keeps his head down, does his daily devotionals, repents for his "masturbation addiction" and moves on with his life, hoping to god that Richie is having a better month than he is, so that when he gets back home he can tell Eddie all about it and make him forget this horrible experience he's had.

Although thinking of a month without Eddie as anything positive is hard, it's still probably better than being at Jesus Camp, in retrospect. Summer is still Summer, the freedom of no classwork, or no expectation, always easier than the burden of education. It's a little different this Summer compared to the last, admittedly. Mike has to begin working full time at the butcher's where his Grandfather works, and Stan is enlisted to work at the Synagogue with his father doing God knows what.

"Literally," Richie had once joked at night in their Clubhouse, ignoring the other Losers' loud groaning, "God's the only one who can know, right? Since you're in his house and all--" they'd thrown their pillows and trash at him at the time, and it was fine enough. But he knew Eddie would have laughed.

He also would have been pleased to know that Hank Armitage does get a porch-full of doggie bags set on fire every single night of the month. Sometimes he puts it out, sometimes his parents, once even his older sister who was home from college. And considering each bag is lovingly signed " For Hank <3 " while it burned, they know exactly who to blame.

Richie takes odd jobs here and there, and by the second week, out of sheer boredom, ends up taking an internship at the local radio station. It's probably the first thing that's ever brought his family to congratulate him, like he'd actually accomplished something. For once it's him getting his favorite dinner while his parents and sister sit around the table and peg him with questions about how it's going, how he's liking it, what he's doing-- and yeah, Richie can see how that feels nice, even if it doesn't get any more glamorous than him dumping the producer's trash cans or cleaning their spit filter.

It does, however, mean that Rex again doesn't get to be attached to Richie's side like usual. Typically Richie can take enough breaks to satisfy his dog, returning home on his lunches or ten minute breaks just to play and say hi, to feed him and assuage the horrible separation anxiety Richie had never been able to cure-- but there's a telethon Richie's second week into the job, and he's gone for an astounding 16 hours without the ability to leave for more than 3 minutes just to catch is breath outside. They needed him for errands, they said, to take names, to take calls, to run the switchboard; at the time it'd felt like a gift, an honor to be recognized so heavily as one of the team and be utilized as more than just a trash boy. 

That night he'd come home to a quiet house and a quieter backyard, Rex nowhere to be seen.

Richie doesn't show up to work the next day, or the day after that. They don't bother calling to ask where he'd gone, and his parents could only look on with disgust and frustration as Richie returned to being holed up in his room or spending his entire day out on the town, alone or with friends, counting every minute until Eddie could come home.

Eddie luckily got the splint off his nose just two days before his mom came back to pick him up. The bruising has all cleared up-- both on his nose, and regrettably on his thighs, and the stitches were removed. There's a little crescent-moon shaped scar on the side of his nose that you have to be really close to see just in the right light, that the doctor says will probably fade with age, but otherwise there's no more evidence of his broken nose as he heads home. 

He spends the entire three-hour car ride home explaining to his mother how solid in his faith he feels since going, thanking her profusely for sending him and praising the excellent facilities and programs, as if he hadn't spent the entire month thinking about Richie, and Richie's hands, and Richie's mouth, and Richie's voice, and Richie's eyes and Richie's-- 

It has the desired effect, though. She's so proud of him that she lets him celebrate his newly strengthened faith by spending the night at the house of a friend of choice-- and Eddie picks Ben. Or that's what he says, anyway. He knows his mom doesn't really appreciate Ben's mom's 'loose' values when it comes to her sexuality and health, but she respects the woman as a single mother, and respects Ben all the more for being a good student and a moral boy. It means that she won't be calling Ben's mom to confirm whether he's there, because she doesn't like talking to Ms. Hanscom, and it's all the cover he needs to sneak away for as much of the night as he wants before calling her to tell her he "misses mommy" and she'll come pick him up from the road outside Ben's house. It's a foolproof plan.

He has dinner with his mom first, after already having faked a phone call to the Hanscoms, and then she drops him off in Ben's driveway. He stands on the curb to wave at her the whole way as she drives off back to their street, and then promptly hooks his overnight bag across his back, and cuts across yards and side-streets to make it to Richie's house. It's already dark when he gets there, a solid 8 pm, which marks the earliest either of them has ever come after the other for one of these nights-- and circles around the back yard to knock on Richie's first-floor bedroom window, already buzzing with excitement to see him again.

There's a silence from the room that greets the knock. The last time there'd been silence in the Tozier household at the presence of a knock had been before December, but there wasn't the chiming dingle of a chain in the backyard signifying Rex's presence there, either. Indeed, the house almost seemed clinically cold without it, the lights already out for the night-- including in the room where Eddie had just knocked. 

How anticlimactic would that have been? For Eddie to plan his way back to Richie only to find him gone or too asleep to notice his knock? 

He doesn't, of course, not two seconds later the blinds and window raising to reveal Richie,who just stares at Eddie like he's a goddamn apparition. A hand raises to rub at his eye, but judging from the bags under them-- not entirely unusual for Richie, who could get immersed in topics that had him forgoing sleep to pursue them for months at a time-- he hadn't gone to sleep in quite some time. The staring might have been considered rude to polite company, but for Richie it just looked like his brain was buffering.

And then he smiles, a broad, wide, sad thing, shoving the window up higher and reaching a hand out through it, "Come here," He whispers without allowing a second thought. If Eddie was back, he got a bed. His parents could fucking rot for all he cared.

Eddie crawls right through his window, but before Richie can even get a hand on him, he quickly locks the other boy's bedroom door, just in case. Then he turns to face him and throws his arms up around his neck, standing up on his tiptoes to close the distance between them, not to kiss, but just to hold. 

And there seems to be something almost more intimate about just hugging him, after so many weeks without seeing Richie. To just feel him against his chest, to fit his hands into his hair, to be able to touch him and feel how real he is, and how badly Richie wants to just hold him, too. Eddie immediately starts crying, he can't help himself and doesn't even try. He gasps quietly, unwilling to cry loud enough to alert anyone else in the house, and just shakes in Richie's arms.

Richie curls around him like a flower opening up to the Sun. He arms coil around Eddie's waist, his chin tucks over Eddie's shoulder, and their bodies come together with that perfect unity he'd been so afraid of losing with his time in Christville. Of course it was an irrational fear, one borne less out of realism and more out of primative nerves: God can't take away Richie's height or add to Eddie's, and definitely has better things to do than cockblock two queers wanting the perfect hug. But still, the fear had been there, and still Richie cries as Eddie's warmth joins his own, hit so hard that his knees go weak and they sink to the floor, holding one another.

It was maybe more overwhelming than Eddie was expecting, to be away from Richie for a month like he was. He had so much to distract him while he was at Bibleventure-- the bullying, the harrassment, the prayers and devotions, the benedictions and scripture, the repentance and confession and all the careful balancing both of his gay thoughts and his hypochondria, he barely had the time to miss Richie. It had been there in the back of his mind the entire month, festering like a wound, and now that he's here with Richie again, all the pain catches up with him at once, and he gasps his sobs into Richie's shoulder, sitting astride his lap like a throne with his legs folded on either side of his hips at the knee, and his arms wound so tightly around his neck he could swear he's almost cutting off the other boy's air. 

Finally he pulls back to take Richie's glasses off, tossing them to the carpeted floor so he can hold him by the face, brushing his longer-still hair back off his cheeks and forehead so he can pepper them with kisses, kissing his cheekbones and the hollows of his cheeks, his nose and lips and jaw and forehead, everywhere he can fit his lips for a second he kisses, in between desperate, broken whispers of "Missed you, missed you, missed you, missed you--"

Richie sniffs and brings up the heel of his hand to rub furiously at his eyes and cheeks, tipping forward to stay as close to Eddie as he can even as the boy assaults him with so many kisses he can't hope to keep up. Finally his head tips up, fingers raising to cradle Eddie's face in his larger palms and force him still. For a long minute Richie doesn't do anything at all. He sits rooted to the spot, staring at Eddie like he was trying to memorize his face anew. The last time they'd seen each other, his beautiful face had been marred by that horrible cast, and for what felt like eons it was only that sad, final vision he had of Eddie in his bedroom to remember him by, looking miserable and swollen in all the worst ways.

Ducking his head, Richie's arms circle back around Eddie's shoulders and pull him back into his chest. He doesn't kiss him, doesn't say a word, but he does squeeze Eddie like he was afraid he might slip out of his fingers if he didn't hold on tightly. "I missed you too, man," Finally speaking after so long having gone without, Richie's voice is heavy and thick like gravel, scratchy and catching on his throat even as above him Eddie sounds much the same, and down too-short a hallway his parents sleep. " _Fuck_ , I missed you too," There's a telltale tremor in his voice now, and Richie buries his face in Eddie's neck to hide the quivering of his lip.

Eddie buries both his hands in Richie's hair, cradling his head against his chest, basking in the warmth of being with him again, of all of those terrible fears finally slipping away. He was never going to stop loving Richie because of a fucking bible camp, there was no force on earth that could make him stop, not even god himself. If god parted the clouds and looked down from the heavens and told him to stop loving Richie or he'd go to hell, Eddie would walk backwards into it, facing him. 

He does notice, though, a distinct lack of Rex jumping all over him. He didn't even notice at first, he'd been so absorbed by Richie's presence, but now that he's finally settling down a little bit, he looks around for the beagle. He's nowhere to be seen in the room, in fact even the water bowl that Richie kept for him in his room is gone. Eddie gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

"Dude-- where's Rex?" he whispers under his breath, hoping for good news, hoping it isn't what it looks like. Eddie knows how much Richie's parents hated that dog they got for him.

Whenever Richie tries to brush something off with any amount of flippancy, he gets a particular crease in his eye. A very specific furrow of his brow, like that's where he's storing everything bad that's real while the rest of his face pulls some casual 'whatever' expression. The Losers don't notice it, his parents certainly don't. Eddie would be the only one who could, the only one who bothered to get to know Richie's quirks intimately enough to where he could call a spade a spade. 

It's that expression he wears now, followed by a little scoffing huff under his breath. Richie shakes his head like he's considering denying anything about the dog at all, maybe the dog's existence, period. But he'd loved that thing too much, had spent too much time nurturing and raising and adoring the dog to pretend like he hadn't been real. So instead he settled for a tight-throated grunt and a shake of his head. 

"Had to figure they'd get rid of him at some point, right?" Richie says, and the amount of pain in his voice is enough to cripple nations, even if his words speak of casual dismissal. There's nothing casual about the way Richie's entire body curls in or the way his arms clench around Richie's shoulders. There's nothing casual about the way he holds himself now, like he's anticipating a punch Eddie would never give. "He's been gone almost two weeks. Too loud." And he, apparently, too irresponsible.

"Jesus," Eddie whispers, feeling the heartache as if it was his own. "Jesus," he repeats, as disbelief turns into fury, and he curls his arms back around Richie to hold him tight. " _Fuck_ that. Fuck them, dude, _fuck_. That's so fucked up."

He doesn't say 'i'm sorry' because he knows it's a worthless platitude. And besides that, he's not sorry-- he's angry. Angry at Richie's parents for never appreciating him the way he deserves. Much the way he assumes that Richie is angry at Eddie's mom. Neither of them have the parents they should, both of them have found everything they need and deserve in each other. They'll always have each other, that's not even a question. 

"Fuck them, okay? We'll get a dog when we leave Derry," he says it so casually, because he feels it so sincerely in his heart. There isn't even a doubt that they're going to leave Derry together, of course they will. It's already written by the hand of fate, it feels.

It's such a simple promise, spoken so plainly and without hesitation. It was enough to make Richie's entire chest seize and clench, enough to make his pulse suddenly tangible just under his skin. Richie looks up at Eddie with eyes that are rapidly becoming overbright again with unshed tears, but this time his mouth breaks into a crooked smile. It'd be nervous if Eddie knew how Richie felt, if Eddie knew how Richie had been feeling-- but it just looked tentatively hopeful as it was.

"We?" He can't help but repeat the word, for clarity if nothing else, "Jesus Camp had you planning our future, Kaspbrak?" If he makes a joke out of it, it lessens the question. The conversation doesn't have to turn down the serious path of their future and their feelings and their labels and their lives-- it was a joke. "Kind of a shitty Jesus Camp."

Richie leans forward then to press his lips to Eddie's forehead, and it's there that he lingers, nose pressed into his hairline and lips against his skin. He wants to say 'I love you' so fucking badly right now, wants to say it as many times and Eddie had confessed to missing him, but the words die on his tongue before they get out, too much of a coward to go through with it.

"You have no idea," Eddie whispers in laughter, and devolves into telling Richie all about how fucking awful it truly was. 

They don't actually sleep together that night. It wouldn't feel right to have to stifle themselves for their first time touching eachother after so long, and with all of Richie's family home, that's what they would have to do. But Eddie does stay until the small hours of the morning, and even has to hide in the closet once like a proper girl when Richie's mom wakes up in the middle of the night to pee and hears talking, and Richie explains that he'd just been practicing for the radio show because he was thinking of going back to work, which satisfied her enough that she left and Eddie could crawl back out of the closet giggling under his breath. 

It's not until the next night that they sneak out to the clubhouse again, and this time without the candles, even. Spiders be damned, Eddie needs to get his hands on Richie again. He loses track of how many times they fuck that night-- four? Maybe five. Both of them assume both roles more than once, he remembers that much, and as much as Richie wants to, he doesn't put a single bruise on Eddie's inner thighs. Eddie hates his mom for it. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy if you thought the last chapter was angsty

The summer is too short, thanks to Bibleventure, but the pair of them make nearly every second of it count. Eddie gets a summer job at the movie theatre, saving up nearly every cent he makes in those warm months, both as a moving-out fund, and to buy his mother eighteen Christmas presents this year. If Richie gets to corner him in the dark and anonymous reel room more than once over the summer, it's just an added bonus.

Eighteen truly is a staggering number. There was a real part of Eddie's hypochondriac anxiety that was convinced he wouldn't even make it this long, that infection or disease would have claimed him by now. He thought certainly that he'd be wasting away in a hospital bed at least by the ripe old age of 18, but instead he spends the day with his mom, as she buys him his very first used car. It's a jalopy, but it serves its purpose-- and Richie and Eddie christen the back seat with love that very same night. 

With the school year back on, Richie and Eddie realize how soon they'll actually be able to get out. It felt like a pipe dream even at the start of summer, but as they pass Christmas and start looking down the barrel towards graduation, they realize they actually have to start planning the rest of their lives. They don't really _have_ a plan, something which scares the dickens out of Eddie, but he thinks he can take on any beast with Richie at his side. They have a car, they have 5k in the bank thanks to Eddie's summer job, and they have a determination to get the fuck out. That's all they need.

College was never in the cards for Richie like it was for Eddie, whose mother basically demanded some measure of success and he was the fool for indulging her. No, Richie's parents had long since accepted that he was to live of a life of below-mediocrity, and as the school year ticks on there only seems to be further and further evidence to that point. Richie doesn't bother with rounding out his transcript, doesn't even bother applying to schools at all, although he makes particular note of whatever city Eddie mentions applying for their online programs, and begins reaching out for job opportunities to bring with him-- for all he'd left the radio on such a sour note, they'd at least really seemed to like him, and were even willing to write him a glowing endorsement, even with his abrupt departure.

Eddie's birthday comes and goes, as does Christmas, a New Year spent at Richie's house when the rest of his family goes upstate to visit his dreaded aunt and with cheap champagne Mike had convinced his grandfather to buy for the teens; Richie steals a kiss or five in his room while their friends count down and cheer below. Richie's birthday is a rather anticlimactic affair, but still nothing he wasn't used to when his parents had to utilize so much effort just to keep his dearest, darlingest sister happy.

Which, frankly? Was just as well for Richie. There was freedom in a timeline, freedom in knowing just how much he had left to endure. A few scant months and he was out of Derry with the young man he'd loved, with money and time and each other, and frankly? There was nothing Richie could have enjoyed more than thinking about that light at the end of the tunnel. His sister could achieve and his parents could forget he ever existed, and thankfully Richie could, too.

They planned their apartment on their days off. Roaming the halls of furniture stores just to see what everything looked like, Richie and Eddie crafted an aesthetic from the walls, to the floors, to the light fixtures, talking quietly so as not to arouse suspicion and linking pinkies amongst the massive warehouse aisles, where only God could see them-- And frankly, God had proven he didn't really give a shit what Eddie did.

The daydreams start to become more and more real and concrete as they approach their graduation in late May, and when the day finally comes, you'd think Mama Kaspbrak was attending Eddie's _funeral_ for how loud she sobbed in the audience. When they tossed their caps in the air, Eddie locked eyes with Richie from across the lawn and grinned from ear to ear. They're officially adults now, they can leave. 

It'll take a little bit of time to actually set up to go, though. Eddie knows better than to tell his mother ahead of time, the more time she has to freak about him leaving, the more time she'll have to actually try to prevent him from going. He plans to tell her the day of and no sooner, so that all the plans are already in motion and she can't get in the way-- or at least, his guilt from leaving her behind will be less than the guilt would be from breaking all these plans with Richie. And really that's just the Catholic experience-- managing guilt. 

They plan to leave at the end of June, which gives them all month to pack up and go. Eddie has to be careful to only pack what his mother won't see, and he starts stacking boxes in the back yard, in his and Richie's secret bushes hideout, wrapped in a tarp in case it rains. The plan is to keep everything hidden until the last second, pack the last of his stuff up the day they plan to leave and pack up the car, and then wait for his mom to get home and tell her then that he's leaving, while he's practically on his way out the door. 

Richie doesn't hear back from any of the jobs he applied to, but Eddie got approved for the online programs for all six schools he applied for, so they really have their pick of the litter, with a road trip planned across the country to stop at every school and check out the local area, and decide _together_ where they want to live. It'll be the cutest, gayest shit they've ever done.

Richie felt like he'd been planning for this part his entire goddamn life. His bag had been packed for what felt like ages, goodbyes said to his sister, to his mom, to his dad, to anyone and everyone he thought had mattered enough to say goodbye too. A late night conversation (or argument, depending on who you ask) with Richie's parents ends with him feeling a renewed vigor, and as they plowed through the last of spring, Richie surprised everyone by graduating with one of the highest single-semester GPAs in their entire class, a pristine, immaculate 4.0 which greets Richie's parents when it comes in the mail the week after school ends, and they finish school with tremendous triumph-- or Richie does, as he officially can't be told a singular, goddamn thing in the wake of his own success.

It becomes a waiting game for the time to be right. They'd decided the date, but Richie was ready to bolt immediately. He was anxious, it was obvious, and there wasn't a single week that went by that had Richie not bringing up apartment ads or a newspaper from a different city, jobs underlined or circled and calls made. Eddie was set on the end of June, and Richie could hold out because he loved him, but goddamn did it take some white-knuckled patience on his part, and plenty of nights spent in the Clubhouse when his parents began to pester.

Bill leaves first, to a summer school program to his writing school in Iowa, workshops held throughout the Summer for new students to get assimilated or something-- but the Losers all know it's just to get the fuck out of dodge, and not a single one blames him as they wave him off. Bev, contrary to previous summers, doesn't bother coming back at all for any length of time except to say goodbye to the boys when they pack up and go, and the next person who ends up cutting their summer short is, surprisingly Mike.

He has no plans on leaving, his grandfather far too frail to continue running the farm by himself and the family needing the income to survive, but his grandfather insists on him learning the process of cultivating and curating a herd, and Mike leaves on an extended road trip in the middle of June, well aware that it will be his last time seeing many of his friends, as he wouldn't be back until August. Their goodbyes are solemn, but understanding. 

For Richie, personally, it feels like a goddamn death sentence-- but he keeps his mouth shut and waves a polite goodbye either way, and later that night tries to convince Eddie to steal away with him in the night, lips ghosting into his thigh reverently in a gesture he can only pantomime, never perform-- not while under Mama Kaspbrak's watchful, prudish eye. Eddie says no, as always, but applauds Richie's effort, knowing full well how hollow it has begun to ring as more and more of their friends escape Derry Maine, and leave them fewer and fewer reasons to stay.

Two weeks, Eddie promises, and then next week. As if Richie isn't counting the days to the final day of June. Eddie had been spending this past month slowly weaning his mother off of him, talking about schools that she kept finding issues with at every turn, talking about what he plans to do with the rest of his life, what careers he wants to go into. He knows if he just broke it off all at once his mother would have a meltdown of chernobyl proportions, so he takes it slow and easy, to gently slide her into the idea of him leaving. 

And then, at last, it's the final day of June. A full month of packing and planning has passed, and Eddie calls Richie's house as soon as his mom leaves for work. Richie answers on the first ring, he'd known to anticipate Eddie's call this morning, and they barely exchange two words with each other before he's coming over on his bike. 

The last of Eddie's things have to be packed up, which Eddie attends to in his room, while Richie carries all of the boxes he'd hidden in the back yard to pile in the back seat and trunk of Eddie's car. Their first plan was to stop by a cell phone store and actually get their first ever cell phones, so they could easily communicate with one another if they split up on college campuses for any reason, and then get an apartment, and then get a dog. 

It's thrilling, packing up the last of his room in boxes. His bed is stripped, his curtains drawn and every last poster taken off the wall and meticulously folded into a binder, ready to be put up in their new place. All the surface-level decorations he couldn't have packed up over the last month without drawing attention to his escape plan come down, and slowly but surely his room starts to have less and less personality. He decides to encourage his mom to get a cat, or something. She seems like she'll suffer from empty nest syndrome pretty hard.

Some of the boxes are damp or a little worse for wear, but for the most part they all make it into Eddie's reliable, safe hatchback without incident. There's even room to spare, Richie not bothering to bring too much of note except the keyboard stacked in the back seat and a couple bags of clothes that he wears. It's Eddie who really supplies a lot of the stuff. A well curated and quality collection meant things were worth it to bring, and while they left the biggest of things like Eddie's bedframe and dresser, they did take smaller things like his nightstand, his area rug, his mirror. 

Surprisingly, Richie does a good job organizing everything so that even Ms. Kaspbrak couldn't complain about sightlines or blind spots. This was already going to be her worst nightmare, Eddie running off with her least favorite of his friends, and seemingly from nowhere, too-- after all, for the past two years, Eddie had been running to Richie's house when he'd said he was running to Ben's, or Bill's. This would be enough of a shock without Richie rubbing it in, and he was determined to be on his best behavior. 

So much so that when they finish packing, Richie doesn't immediately move to take advantage of the empty house and the victory to do a lap and fuck everywhere they wanted. Eddie probably wouldn't have allowed it anyway, but a lesser Richie would have at least tried to initiate it. Knowing how important this was to Eddie, and not wanting to find any reason this could get fucked up, Richie agrees to sit politely on the couch with Eddie, watching tv with no more affection between them than an arm around Eddie's shoulder and his thumb dragging soothing circles against his collar. 

There wasn't much conversation, but they weren't really watching whatever program was going on, either. It was another waiting game, and this one had Richie buzzing from his ears to his toes, his stomach sick with it. But he could hold out one last time. For Eddie.

As soon as Eddie hears the sound of his mother's car coming up the drive, his stomach bottoms out, and he reaches out to turn off the TV. He gives Richie a resolute nod, looking as scared as any boy could possibly be. This is even more scary than facing Pennywise had been, honestly. At least he knew how to swing a sharp stick and stab a clown, but this-- this was uncharted territory. 

"Here we go," he says, giving Richie's hand a squeeze as he stands up off the couch, and he walks out the front door to greet his mother in the driveway. She immediately brightens up upon seeing him come out to say hello, but her smile falls a little when she sees Richie. 

"Oh, Mr. Tozier. What a surprise," she says flatly with a polite smile. "I didn't know you would be here tonight. Eddie didn't _say anything_."

"Mom," Eddie exhales. "I've got something to tell you--"

"Oh, in a minute, sweet heart, help me bring in the groceries," She continues as she loops her purse over her arm. "I got macaroni salad!"

"That's-- uh-- that's nice mom, but this is important--" Eddie tries again. 

"Is Richie staying for dinner? You know I really didn't plan for three."

"Mom--"

"You should send him home, I don't want him putting his fingers in the macaroni."

"Mom--" 

"I also brought home a new movie, I rented it from Blockbuster, we can watch it while we eat."

Eddie feels himself flagging, his shoulders sagging. He looks desperately to Richie for help. This is exactly why he's always had such a hard time standing up to his mother, she just blows right past him like he's not even talking half the time. Sometimes he feels like it's worthless to even try.

And it's why he brought Richie, who is struck by the amount of empathy he feels for Eddie's mom in this moment. It's easy to create a caricature in his mind of the cruel, shrewish woman who insulated her son and critiqued his every movement and decision. It's easy to be unilaterally disgusted and repulsed by the idea of a woman so overbearing, so insecure, that she felt the need to physically inhibit her son to prevent him from living a life without her. 

It's harder to look at a mother desperately trying to hold onto her only purpose in life, while she can see it fading before her very eyes. Richie can hear the desperation in her tone, the way she completely ignores Eddie altogether. But this was what he was for.

"Eddie won't be staying for dinner, Mrs. Kaspbrak," Richie says loudly, interrupting her planning while standing upright like a proper gentleman and apparently actually playing the part, chin high, shoulders square. He's been traditionally much more of a ghoulish figure in her life, a spectre who only arrives long enough to soak cum into her son's clothes and vanish like a perverted ghost in the night.

Not that she knows that part. Or even will find it out. But still. He liked being a cum-ghost. Not the time. 

"Oh? You won't?" Mrs. Kaspbrak's tone turns icy as she fixes Eddie with an expectant look, clearly holding his attention now, despite her hands full of buckling paper bags. 

"Maybe we should go inside," Richie offers like it was his house to play host in, holding open the door for her, "Eddie and I can bring in the rest of the groceries, and we can talk."

"I don't want to go inside," Eddie says, startling even himself. He doesn't want to go back into that house. Now that he's left the front door, going back inside feels like a prison sentence, one he won't escape from. His mom will lock the doors, trap him in the basement, handcuff him to the bed again-- he just wants to go. His car is _right there_ , they're so _close_.

To be honest, they hadn't exactly talked about _how_ this would go, just... that it would. So Eddie's declaration of stubbornness surprises even Richie, but God if he isn't more than happy to jump to his side. And like that, the door closes with a bang that was probably too loud, the screen door shutting with just a bit too much force, and Richie crosses back to stand with Eddie, warm and firm at his side.

"Eddie, what's going on," Ms. Kaspbrak says sharply. 

"Mom, I'm--" Eddie stands up a little bit straighter now that he has her attention, and he swallows hard. "I'm leaving, mom."

"Where are you going?" her eyes narrow.

"I mean I'm-- I'm _leaving_ , leaving. Town. The state. I'm moving out," he says, preparing for the deluge of tears, but they don't come. He holds his breath for five seconds, waiting for her to cry, but she doesn't. She just stares at him. 

And then she cracks a smile, and starts to laugh. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Eddie dear, now help me bring in the groceries."

"Eddie got into every single school he applied to, Ms. Kaspbrak," Richie says firmly, frowning and crossing his arms as he plays up the role of bodyguard, "You know this has been a long time coming, and it's here. Eddie's leaving. Today," He glances at Eddie and then adds firmly, "Now."

"I think you'd best be quiet about what I do and don't know about my own son, Mr. Tozier," Her voice says, a bit of a snap in her tone when referring to Richie, but gone again when she gets her eyes set on Eddie. She crosses the distance between them to shove the bag into his hands. "Honestly, Eddie, I don't know what this tone is, but we'll have to talk about it later," She gives a reproachful look at Richie, disdain evident in every flick of her eye.

She leans in close when she's near enough to Eddie, as if Richie wasn't right there to overhear, anyway, "I told you this would happen. You spent time with this boy and you developed his mouth," And in a quiet tone Eddie hasn't heard since he was four when he would still throw the occasional tantrum, she clips, "We will have an hour of bible study after dinner and discuss this afterward. Get inside the house."

"Mom, stop it," Eddie says, and hands her the bag right back, much to her surprise. "I'm leaving. Look, the car's already packed up. I've been planning this for like a year, I'm _going_. I'm gonna go to college and get a job in the real world, and then once I've got a good career, I can start paying your mortgage and bills and stuff, to thank you for taking good care of me growing up."

His defiance finally seems to sink in, and she turns to look at the car, clutching the bag to her chest as they stand by the front door, and finally the tears come. Eddie wishes they would have come sooner, they're more predictable and less ugly than her arguing. 

"You've been... _hiding_ this from me?" her voice breaks into a squeak. 

"You wouldn't have let me get this far if I told you sooner," Eddie says defiantly. "I'm 18 years old now, mom. I graduated high school. I'm a grown up. This is what grown ups are supposed to do, we leave the nest."

"You're NOT a grown up!" she throws her purse on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. "Don't you remember our deal, Eddie? You wouldn't leave the house until you were taller than me!"

"Okay, mom, you're five foot five and so am I, I might just not get any taller-- besides I agreed to that when I was like eight years old, that was a million years ago. I'm ready to go. I'm _ready_ to be a part of the world. I've got my medicine scripts, I've been making my own phone calls to the doctors for two years now, I know how to buy a car-- I'm ready. You can't keep me at home forever, part of having children is watching then grow up, right?" Eddie says all in a rush, sounding quite like he'd rehearsed it.

"Not when they're as sick as you, Eddie!" His mother sobs, his arguments falling on deaf ears as she clutches at his chest, an action that instinctively makes Richie take a step forward, worried for Eddie's safety, but she doesn't go to strangle or beat him or anything like that. 

It might have seemed a little extreme, but when it came to Eddie's mom, Richie had long since learned that there was very little you could give her credit for. She'd done basically everything up to that line, anyway. 

"Who's going to take care of you when you're sick, Eddie? Who's going to check your fever, or make sure you're sleeping? Who's going to feed you, give you baths, change your bedding? Are you going to keep the house vacuumed? Cleaned? Your _allergies_ alone, Eddie--" Another wail rips through her voice like she's being wounded all over again.

"He's not going alone," Richie interrupts, the tantrum ungodly and so unlike anything he's seen of her to this point that jesus christ he can't help but go back to hating her. Fuck sympathy, this bitch is insane, "I'm going to be there with him, we're leaving together, Mrs. Kaspbrak, and I won't--"

"You?!" She turns on Richie, fat, sluggish tears tracking down her cheeks, muddying the heavy rouge on her cheeks. It seems like Richie's presence, as usual, is taken more of a detriment than a positive, " _You're_ moving in with him?! The place will be filthy in _days_ , your sinuses will completely close--"

Desperately, Mrs. Kaspbrak's hands release Eddie's shirt to pat up his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, cradling his face in a way Richie so often does but with such different context, "Eddie, Eddie, baby, please, reconsider. We can come up with a plan for you to move out-- together. But not like this. Now right now, not with him, baby, you're too sick. I can't lose you after everything I've done--"

"I'm not that sick, mom--" Eddie protests, but she cuts him off with a wail. 

"Stop CALLING me that!" she clutches his shirt with both hands. 

Eddie sighs. This, in particular, he'd been spending years slowly weaning her off of. He hated being a teenager still calling his mother by the same title he used when he was four, and only used it when he was _really_ trying to be good. Right now, he thinks, he can relent a little bit, for her sake. He takes her by the hands, prying her nails out of his shirt. 

"Mommy," he says instead, squeezing her hands. "I can take care of myself. I know how to vacuum and change sheets, I know how to take my meds on time. You've done a really good job teaching me how to take care of myself, you're the best teacher, okay? I just watched you."

"I wasn't TEACHING you, I was doing it FOR you!" she wails, and that really is the crux of it. Eddie sighs again. 

"I'll visit for my birthdays and holidays," he promises. "And I'll call every week, I'll send postcards and pictures and stuff. You can finally start using that email account I set up for you. I'll be okay. Richie and I are just-- starting out together. I'll keep our place clean, and then eventually once we both have jobs and stuff, we'll each get our own apartments." It's a bold-faced lie, but Eddie is more than a little practiced when it comes to lying to his mother about his closeness with Richie. "It's just for starting out, so we can split rent 50/50."

"YOU did this!" she suddenly rounds on Richie, and grabs him by the shirt, startling both Richie and Eddie. "You turned my son AGAINST ME!"

Richie, easily a foot taller than the woman, looks especially startled at this turn of events, raising his hands defensively against her, but does absolutely nothing even adjacent to shoving her, or moving her, or getting his hands on her in any way. He knows damn well that would end with him in jail and having to call his parents to bail him out, and he knows damn well they would not. 

"Eddie is 18 now, Ms. Kaspbrak!" Richie feels like this point has been repeated so many times by now, but it clearly could stand to be repeated again, "He can make his own choices in his life! He doesn't need me or you or anyone else telling him how to act, he's a full grown man!" He's almost vibrating. He doesn't want to behave. He doesn't _want_ to show her respect, or consideration. This woman has spent the last 18 years taking every ounce of independence from Eddie, and now she's trying to take more.

A scornful, mockingly shrill laugh tears from her lips as she shoves at Richie's chest-- Not that it has much of an effect. Richie barely moves from the force of it, "Oh, like you aren't in his ear chattering on about smoking dope and having sex. You've always been a horrible influence, and now look what you've done! You've turned my boy against me--!" 

Richie has to suck air through his nose with flared nostrils. He practically vibrates through his skin, entire body clenched, "You did that all on your own, Mrs. Kaspbrak, by poisoning him for eighteen goddamn years. It's about time he left."

"You don't know ANYTHING about my relationship with my son!" she shrieks, "You're the reason he had all those bruises on him! YOU'RE the one who's been poisoning him, with-- with evil!" 

She's not wrong about the bruises, but it's for an entirely different reason than what she's thinking. Eddie steps in, unable to watch them fight, and reverts back to the title that upsets her on accident, just out of instinct. "Mom, you've got to stop. You aren't gonna get me to stay by throwing a fit. This is already happening."

"You!" she shouts again at Richie, still holding him by the shirt, and she starts shaking him violently enough that she almost flings his glasses off his face. "Devil boy! Evil, nasty boy!"

Richie's entire body seems to curl in on itself as if on instinct. He doesn't even think of poor Eddie, caught between his mother and his lover, and when his glasses actually go clattering to the porch, it's a snapping point. Bringing his arms up, Richie shoves himself out of Mrs. Kaspbrak's grasp, able to hear the linen of his shirt groan and creak, "I didn't do SHIT to your son, Mrs. Kaspbrak," He snarls, turning on her. Sorry, Eds, but Richie's never been able to bite his tongue for long. 

She takes a step back as he looms over her, but Richie doesn't seem to notice, "The only reason we're still here is because YOUR SON wanted to give you the common FUCKING decency of saying goodbye. If it were up to me, we would have been gone WEEKS ago and you could've sucked my DICK about it." 

_Sorry Eddie, sorry Eddie, sorry Eddie_ \-- It plays on loop in the background while his temper takes over. He doesn't even get the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Kaspbrak's astonished, insulted gasp at his words.

"The car's packed. We have money saved. We're LEAVING. Eddie did what you asked him for EIGHTEEN goddamn years, and now you can do him the fucking DIGNITY of letting him go in peace!"

There's a splintering, groaning noise that accompanies Mrs. Kaspbrak's next step back in retaliation for Richie's advancing step forward-- and this time, she runs out of space. With a short scream of terror, like she fucking knew what terror was, Mrs. Kaspbrak waves her arms as she loses her balance on the porch and falls the single step between the porch and the ground, landing on her back and letting out a pained moan as she writhes like she's dying, even though she hadn't even hit her head.

"Mom--" Eddie is frozen in place between the two of them, unsure of what to do. He can see the neighbors looking now, porch lights turning on, nosy eyes peering over across fences-- this is the nightmare scenario. He didn't want to make life _worse_ for his mom after she left, even if it's only because he knew she'd call to complain about every little thing in his absence. He gives Richie a look that's mixed somewhere between gratitude, anger and sympathy, and he kneels at her side. "Mom, you're okay--"

She lifts her arm, and spots her torn sleeve, where she'd landed on her elbow, scraping it just enough that she's bleeding ever so slightly. "Assault!" she wails. "I'm bloodied!"

"Mom, it's a scrape, it's not that bad--" Eddie tries, but she shoves him away from her as she sits up, knocking him flat on his ass on the asphalt. 

"I'm calling the POLICE," she announces as she gets to her feet, and Eddie's whole body runs cold as he scrambles upright to grab her by the arm. 

"You're calling the police? You're CALLING THE POLICE?" Richie returns, and is suddenly choked by what that fucking means. Police means they're not leaving. Police means trouble. Police means trouble now that he's 18 and can't get out of it for being a minor--

"Mommy, no, you don't have to do that, he didn't mean it, right Richie? You just lost your balance, he didn't mean to push--" Eddie tries again, even placating her with her favorite title, but once again she shoves him away from her, and terror and guilt grip him by both hands. 

"Victim blaming!" she wails, shoving past Richie towards the house. "You stay RIGHT THERE and face your consequences like the grown men you claim to be!"

The fight leaves him immediately, and Richie goes boneless in a matter of seconds, stooping to grab aimlessly at the ground for his glasses before finding them, shattered on one side from where Mrs. Kaspbrak had stomped them into the wood of the porch. He doesn't even care as he shoves them on, some sight better than none. 

"Wait, Mrs. Kaspbrak, I didn't mean to, I really didn't mean for you to get hurt! You lost your balance, that's all, I was just frustrated, I didn't know you were so close to the edge or-- or of course I wouldn't have--" Wild-eyed, Richie turns to look at Eddie even as, from the kitchen, they can hear her on the phone, sobbing hysterically into the receiver and filing what certainly sounded like a very real police report.

"Let's just get out of here, Eds, we can be outside the city before they even get here--" Richie says quickly, eyes wild, breathing heavy. But they would have their license plate information, their car make, their names and descriptions and everything important about them-- and that wasn't even including the fact that this was probably not the way Eddie wanted to go out.

"Fuck," Eddie sits on the porch step and clutches his head for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm. He should have listened, he should have just left in the middle of the night with Richie without warning. He shouldn't have given his mom the opportunity to do this, to turn it around into something this ugly. He should know better by now than to keep giving his mom chances to disappoint him. " _Fuck!"_ He puts his head between his knees, fisting both hands in his hair. He doesn't even seem to hear Richie.

"Eddie, Eddie-- Eds, baby, people are looking--" Without hesitation Richie kneels on the patio next to Eddie, pulling at his hands, his head, trying to catch his eye, his attention, anything to get him out of the hyperventilation state he was in-- not that he had a really better plan. "We gotta go if we're going, we have to get the fuck out of here and we can figure it out later, Eddie, come on, please-- Please just look at me--" It feels like it's crumbling right before his eyes. Their plan, their life, their home, their future, turned into dust because Richie lost his goddamn temper---

In the distance there are already sirens. Damn small town with nothing to do, damn nosey neighbors watching through windows with their hands on the dial.

"Richie, we can't," Eddie looks up with tears in his eyes. "What, run from the police? We can't engage in a police chase, are you nuts? We'll both go to jail. I-- I can get you out, just cooperate. Be polite, be cooperative, don't talk back, be a perfect angel and-- and I'll come bail you out, okay? I'll come get you, I won't leave you in there. It'll only take about an hour to post bail, and then we can get the fuck out of here."

"We can't, Eddie-- our plans-- the savings, we-- we didn't even do anything wrong--" Richie says desperately, but can feel his eyes tickle with the familiar burn of tears, so easily reciprocated in Eddie's own eyes. 

And then he slumps, beaten by the knowledge that Eddie was right, destroyed by the proof right in front of his stupid, idiotic nose. Richie's shoulders curl in on himself, and his head sags, face pressing against the side of Eddie's head, nose tucked behind his ear, "I'm sorry, Eds. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to," He whispers, knowing even this closeness was too much, but not caring about what the neighbors or Eddie's mom might have to say about it.

"I know," Eddie reaches over to grab Richie by the hand and squeeze, just for a moment. He, too, doesn't care what his mother has to say about it at this point. "I know you didn't, Richie... we'll-- we'll figure it out, okay? Whatever it takes. This isn't how it's gonna end, no way. We planned way too long and I worked my _ass off_ to save up for us to move out of Derry."

He stands up just as the police car pulls up into the driveway, and he walks forward before his hysterical mother has a chance to come running down the drive. It's a small town, and Eddie knows all the cops by name, his mother's always been a bit of a girl who cried wolf, after all. He approaches the deputy and explains in hushed tones what happened, that his mother's being dramatic and to go easy on Richie who was only defending himself from her grabbing him, and the officer reassures him kindly that they'll post the minimum bail and let it go to court to determine whether she was in the right for claiming assault. 

_Court_ , Eddie hears the word echo like a death sentence in his brain. He wouldn't have to pay bail if they let it go to court, but court dates can sometimes stretch out to a year in the future. It's not worth waiting in Derry that long, letting his mom get her hooks back into him for that long. This was dramatic enough. With the officer's consent he comes back over to Richie and murmurs, "Okay, they're not even gonna cuff you. Just go with him in the car, he's gonna let you ride in the front seat so it's less... just less. I'm gonna follow behind him in the car and I'll post bail right away, okay? We'll be out of here in like an hour and a half, two hours tops."

Every line of Richie's body screams defeat. His shoulders are sagged, one elbow balanced on his knee, hand over his mouth twisted into a frown. It seems to be the most he can do to conceal any iota of how he's feeling, holding the position as Eddie approaches the officers, talks them down before things can get messy-- from inside, he can hear the heavy scuffle of Ms. Kaspbrak, and with an unpleasant grimace on his face he stands up, shoving his hands deep into the tattered holes of his jeans pockets.

He stands at the top of the stairs until Eddie comes back, and doesn't look at him when he does, continuing to not look at him when he explains the terms of Richie's... surrender. It feels like a surrender of them both. Richie's mouth tastes like ash.

"Yeah," Richie mutters, still refusing to look at Eddie in the face, mouth still twisted into that pained frown. "I'll see you later, Eds," He mutters, before heading to the police officers and muttering a low 'thanks' as he bends to take the passenger's seat, the door slamming shut behind him with a hard click. The cop car pulls away without Richie looking up, staring resolutely and silently at the dashboard in front of him, not moving or saying a word.

They're gentle with him at the station, at least. In a small town like this they already know most of the answers to the booking paperwork they have to go through, so they only have to ask him a couple questions before he's moved to a holding cell, and true to his word, Eddie is already there in the lobby when Richie is passed from spot to spot. Richie still isn't in handcuffs, an incredibly small kindness, in the middle of all this, as he hears Eddie yelp " _Two thousand?"_ from the lobby behind him before the door shuts at his heel. 

Two thousand is easily half of their savings. Working for just three months making minimum wage hadn't given Eddie a monstrous amount of money, and his mother had still selfishly insisted he keep their Christmas tradition of her buying him a present for every year he's been alive, which ate into what would have been six thousand. 2k wouldn't have been as significant a chunk, if she'd just let him buy her one present. 

There's a part of Richie that thinks he won't pay it, a smaller part that kind of hopes he won't. He knows he won't get out otherwise, but maybe Eddie would just turn, take the money and run and leave him there. Leave his mom, leave Derry, and go on to have a normal life away from this horrible town and its horrible past and his horrible fucking mother. 

But unsurprisingly, he's fetched just 45 minutes later by the same cop who brought him in. "Kaspbrak got your bail," he says, thumbing back over his shoulder. "It's all processed, you're good to go."

"Thanks, Officer," Richie mutters, one of the few words he's said the entire time he was in there, and the only thing he had said outside of being asked a direct question. He'd heard the cost of his freedom. This was no victory walk, and his bail wasn't any good news. 

There's not much crime in Derry, Maine, and even less that requires high security and fancy technology, so when the officers let Richie go it's as simple as walking through a two-way door, pushing it open with his shoulder when using his hand seemed like too much effort. And there, in the middle of the station lobby, was Eddie, nervously fumbling with his inhaler, his keys, anything that was in his hands. Richie tries to smile bravely for him, but it didn't go too well-- it was wobbly and weak, at best.

"Thanks, Kaspbrak," Richie says formally, all too aware of their surroundings to properly greet or embrace the smaller man. Only when he's properly standing over Eddie, close enough to feel is warmth and speak at a volume that he couldn't be heard over, does Richie continue, "You should've left, man," He mutters, "That money was yours. You should've just gone."

"Shut up," Eddie says it, sounding almost angry at the thought of leaving Richie behind. "I'm not gonna just-- no way. No way. Not without you. Are you crazy? Let's get to the car, I wanna put Derry in our rearview mirror."

Just as he's turning to the front doors of the lobby, the ultimate nightmare takes shape. There through the glass of the front doors is a swiftly approaching Mr. Tozier, with an unreadable but intense expression in his eyes, marching towards the front doors so fast that Eddie is drawn up short. 

"Oh shit--" is all he manages to get out before the front door is pushed open, and he fully expects to be blown right past with a furious rant directed at Richie-- but surprisingly Mr. Tozier has his sights set on _him_. 

"Your mother," he says, sounding a little out of breath. "She called us a wreck. The ambulance is on its way--"

"Ambulance?" Eddie shrieks, whiplash snapping him twice in as many moments. 

"She tried to kill herself," Mr. Tozier explains, and Eddie freezes up completely, like the words themselves turned him to stone.

"Bullshit," Richie says loudly before he can even think to stop himself, and the full force of his father's gaze turns on him. 

"We'll be talking to _you_ about this later," Mr. Tozier snaps, before turning back to Eddie, "I have my car running up front, if you're done here I can drive you home--"

"We have Eddie's car," Richie says quickly, looking down at the viscerally shocked boy, "I'll drive. He should have his car."

"Then I'll lead you there. Come on," His father says briskly, turning on his heel even as Richie turns to Eddie.

"Okay.... okay, Eds. Where're the keys?" When Eddie doesn't answer him, Richie digs in his front pocket and finds them on the first try, before a firm hand lands across the back of Eddie's neck and pushes him groundingly forward, leaning him to the door with a firm hand just to get him started. Richie's walking that same long-legged quick stride as his father, and with some goading Eddie hustles alongside him. "Try and breathe, Eddie, just breathe. I'm sure she's okay. I'm sure she's alright, we'll get you home in no time and you'll see for yourself--"

Except when they get to Eddie's house, it already looks like a crime scene, for the second time that night. This time, though, there's the squat white cube of an ambulance pulled diagonally into Eddie's driveway, a flock of people being held aside by a tired looking deputy as, just beyond the doorway EMTS are visibly putting Mrs. Kaspbrak onto a stretcher before belting her into place.

Eddie feels like he's underwater as he watches the scene, detached from reality and completely numb. Despite the fact that he's watching it happen with his own two eyes, it hasn't really hit him that this is real yet. How many times had he had nightmares exactly like this? Coming home to find his mommy dead or injured or sick? It doesn't feel real. 

"What happened?" he asks Mr. Tozier in a numb, quiet voice. 

"Pills, I think," he answers. "Maggie said she mentioned pills."

"Her sleep meds," Eddie fills in the blanks easily, as he looks to his left, up at Richie. "I've gotta... go with her. To the hospital. Make sure she's okay."

Mrs. Tozier is standing to the side of Eddie's open front door with her expression pinched in concern, being interviewed by a few police officers. If they thought the scene was too big before, it was completely insurmountable now, and Richie feels whatever dust was left of their dreams slip through his fingers, desperate to recapture it, to grab onto it with whatever net he could cast.

"I'll bring the car," Richie says without looking up from the scene himself, watching as two paramedics heft Ms. Kaspbrak onto the stretcher and raise it onto its wheels, wheeling her out and down the steps of the porch, a quiet rumble going through the small, amassed crowd. 

Richie feels like he could puke, swallowing around his own tongue before gesturing to Eddie beside him, "Go with her, dude. I'll follow you," Of course every inch of him wanted to argue, of course he wanted nothing more than to just skip town now and move on with their goddamn lives-- but he also knew that there was no way for him to argue against this. There was no way Eddie could be convinced to leave his mom. Even if she was a witch only doing this keep her son in her clutches.

Eddie climbs numbly into the back of the ambulance and just stares down at his mother as they begin the process of overdose care. If she opens her eyes to look at him, if she says anything, he just doesn't notice. He's so faraway in his own mind that he doesn't notice anything at all as they drive to the hospital with the sirens wailing. Someone puts a blanket around him, and he just holds it with both hands. 

He blinks, and he's in the waiting room of the hospital now. He blinks again, and he's beside his mother's hospital bed, holding her hand. She's crying, but he can't hear what she's saying. He blinks again and he's in the hallway, and he's looking at Richie as he approaches. Time keeps moving in weird, jumbled jumps. 

"Are you in trouble?" he asks Richie, his voice soft with a mix of concern and emotional exhaustion. This was all going about as awful as it possibly could have. Honestly he'd be surprised if his parents even care that much. He was already on his way out of town when all this happened, it's not like they have to actually deal with him anymore. If anything, this is probably just embarrassing for them.

"They asked if I was pleased with myself," Richie drawls, deadpan. His hands are still tucked into his pockets, and if Eddie hadn't seen him take them out to drive, personally, then he might not have believed Richie had taken them out yet at all since he'd first gotten into the cop car. He watches Eddie through his cracked glasses with hunched shoulders, head hanging like a dog who had just been scolded for a mess.

Eddie looks like shit. How had only a few hours managed to age him 10 years? How were there creases and lines across his forehead and between his brow and low on his cheeks that Richie had never seen? How was it possible for one human boy to take on so much stress and still survive to talk about it? 

At least Richie finally manages to spare a glance at the room behind Eddie, where he was sure Ms. Kaspbrak was peacefully sleeping attached to dozens of machines she didn't deserve, taking space and attention away from the people in the hospital who actually fucking needed it. Richie's rage solidifies into an ugly little ball of iron in his gut, resolve tightening. 

"How is she?" Richie can at least manage the decency for that, even if he doesn't sound like he gives a shit.

"She's... fine," Eddie says flatly. "I guess she didn't actually take that big of a dose, but... they're keeping her for observation on suicide watch--"

His voice breaks, saying the word out loud finally did him in, and he starts to cry. It's not the anguished, full-body sobs of a boy who was so desperately close to losing someone he loved-- not at all. In fact, his crying is very small, very quiet, sounding more defeated than anything. Like he'd finally hit his limit, like he'd lost. He has, he knows he's lost. His mother won. This was the final, worst thing she could do to him, and she went and did it like it wasn't even hard to do.

Richie knows that cry. It's the cry he'd been hiding himself, the last sob of their plans falling to ruin. 

"We can still go," No they can't, "If she's fine. There's nothing stopping us from going." Except Eddie's mom. Eddie's mom, who had just tried to kill herself. Eddie's mom who would rather the entire town think she tried to overdose on sleeping pills than allow her son to grow up without her consent. Eddie's mom who had tried to send Richie to _jail_ for the audacity of standing by her son, who had called his parents to talk about her suicide, not by sheer fucking coincidence.

Maybe it was lucky his parents didn't give a shit about him. If they cared more, he might actually have consequences to look down the barrel of. But they don't, and he doesn't, so instead he raises a hand to curl around the back of Eddie's neck, pulling him in to press flush with his chest in a one-armed hug, whispering again, "We can just leave."

God, Eddie wishes that were true. He wishes more than anything that they could leave now. But he knows deep down in his guts it isn't. 

"I can't," he sobs quietly, confirming the thing they were both afraid to admit. "Richie, my mom just-- I _can't_. I can't leave her, she'll-- she'll do it for _real_. I have to stay, she'll-- I don't know what I'd do if she died, if it was my fault--"

" _None_ of this is your fault," Richie whispers incredulously. From the outside it looks like one friend consoling the other after a traumatic event, holding him close but only with one arm, not the full-body press he wants but hard enough that the point comes across. "Eds, none of this is your fault. None of it." 

Looking up at the empty hallway, Richie allows himself to lower his face into Eddie's hair, lips brushing the top of his head as he speaks, "This is what she does, Eddie. She guilts you into staying, you can't do it this time," He sounds desperate as he speaks in a quiet little voice, overwet with tears, "You said it yourself, man, she didn't even really try, she just-- made it up to keep you here," His voice is thick, overwhelmed with his own emotion. His last words desperate, a quiet, obvious plea, "We can still go, we just have to _go_ \--"

"Y-- yeah, man, maybe she didn't go all the way _this_ time, but she was just trying to make a point. If I did go? For real?" Eddie pulls away from Richie, looking up at him with wet, scared eyes. "We don't have nearly enough savings to put down a payment on an apartment now... not if we want to _survive_ afterwards, and-- and we don't even have a plan. We never had a plan, but if we go out there and fuck up and fail and my mom-- if she kills herself, where will I go? I'll have nowhere to come home to. _Your_ parents aren't going to take me in, I don't even think they'd take you back if we can't make it out there, they're probably renovating your bedroom into a home gym as we speak--"

"We'll figure it out, we can figure anything out, Eds-- " Richie whispers desperately, only half-believing they were having this conversation. When was coming home ever even in the plan? Richie would have lived in the car with Eddie and washed his pits in the sink at gas stations if it meant being away from Derry, this fear of a backup plan was just an excuse-- Richie's voice breaks, "What's the alternative? You can't _stay_."

He _can_ stay, and that's what scares Richie. He absolutely could stay and maybe even have a reprieve from the suffocation of his mother for a while. Maybe they discuss new boundaries, maybe she lightens up a little without school to take 8 hours of his life every day-- but all that freedom, none of it would be real. It'd be little gifts that sure feel good in comparison to what Eddie had had in high school, but it was still prison, he would still be in _prison_ \--

It hits, then, just what Eddie is saying. His mind is made up. He's thought of reasons. Excuses. His brain has already gone that winding web of 'what ifs' and come up on the other side of caution, back with his mother, back with familiarity, back where things are safe and his mother is alive and he's in the jail of his home-- a vice grips Richie's heart, a clawed hand squeezing so hard Richie worries it might burst from his chest, "Eddie," He says, and this time is voice is firm, "You can't stay."

"I can't go," Eddie counters, his voice horribly broken. "She's my _mom_ , Richie... I-- I know you don't like her, and she doesn't like you, and-- and I can't fix that, but she's still my mom. It's not like your parents, where they've just... never liked you. You can walk away from that because you're not really losing anything, but my mom-- she suffocates me, sure, but she does it because she loves me so much. If I walk away now while she's like this, I'll be taking away _everything_ she has. Your parents have your sister, and they have each other, but without me my mom is just _alone_."

"She won't kill herself, Eddie, she couldn't even do it this time," Richie whispers harshly, unable to control it anymore and a slave to the horrible nausea now sinking from his chest to his gut, unpleasant and uncomfortable and making it impossible to breathe, "Can't you see she's just trying to control you? That's all this was, that's all this ever is-- and you're _letting_ her--" He turns to grab Eddie by the biceps, squeezing him hard, but not hard enough to bruise, "Don't do this, Eddie. Don't give up. We can go and she'll be fine, you don't have to stay here and suffer because your mom can't handle being alone with herself for five fucking minutes--"

"I can't risk it," Eddie says, his voice small in his throat, his head ducked like a scolded dog, afraid to even look at the other boy. "If it were just her talking like-- like she was gonna do something drastic like get a stupid hair cut or become a lesbian or get a tattoo, I'd-- I'd go, but, I can't risk it with her _life_ , man... I can't be responsible for it if she does it for real, can't you get that? Can't you understand how serious this is, this is her _life_ we're talking about. If I left and she killed herself, I'd wanna _die_ , I couldn't live with that guilt..."

"I get that you're giving up," Richie says. He's not stupid. Where Eddie refuses to look him in the eye, Richie refuses to look at Eddie anywhere else, stare digging into him like something meaner than he meant it to. "You're just going to let her run your life like this? Then why--" Richie's hands drop, one goes to his hair, raking it back so hard he can hear the snap as he pulls his own hair out by the root, "Why even _plan_ this, Eddie? You knew she was going to pull this shit. You _knew_ she was going to be pissed, why even plan it if you're going to let her do this to us?"

"I didn't know she was gonna do _this!"_ Eddie hisses, gesturing sharply back at the door to his mother's room, looking up with shiny, bloodshot eyes. "I thought she would cry, throw a fit, beg, I didn't know she would try to _kill herself_. After all that shit happened with-- with Pennywise, and I ran off that day, she threw a fit then, and then I came home and we talked it out and everything was okay-- and I didn't expect _this_ , okay? I didn't know this would happen. I thought it would be like last time."

Richie's chest begins to tighten as the realism of his own situation comes crashing down on him, Eddie's words from earlier resurfacing. Richie could just leave because his parents don't like him. They probably wouldn't take him in if he came back, and if he did-- what would happen if they did? They wouldn't. That's just it. They wouldn't. 

"I can't stay, Eds," Richie whispers, voice breaking, "I can't stay here anymore, I'm going crazy, I can't stay in that house, I can't stay with those people anymore. I have to go. I have to get out of here or I'm going to drive myself fucking crazy pedaling my stupid fucking bike everywhere. I can't--" He wanted to go with Eddie. He wanted to conquer the world with Eddie. But if Eddie can't go, and Richie can't stay...

Eddie looks down at the ground, tears slipping down his cheeks as he listens to a horrible, awful good-bye. He knows that's what this is, he can hear it in Richie's voice. It was stupid of him to think Richie would stay for him, and what-- get an apartment here in Derry? They wanted to leave this city _because_ of what happened here. They wanted to forget all the horrible crap that happened that summer five years ago, put some distance between themselves and It.

But there's a stupid, angry and immature part of him that wished Richie would put aside his dreams for the future right alongside Eddie. He reaches up to wipe the tears off his face. 

"Yeah," he says flatly, sniffling. "Good luck." And then he turns on his heel, to head back into his mom's hospital room.

Richie stands rooted to the spot, like a dog abandoned in the rain. "Wait, Eddie--" he says, and doesn't even know where he's going with it. Nowhere good. Nowhere that matters. "Please--"

Eddie pauses at the door, and grips the edge of it without looking back over his shoulder. He can't look back at Richie now. He can't make a decision like this, between his favorite person and his mother, it's just not fair. One person gave him life, the other person gave his life meaning. It just isn't _fair_. 

"What?" he asks, softly, without looking at the other boy.

 _I love you._ The words are right there. They're right there on his tongue and if he could say them maybe it would make everything better. Maybe it would make everything easier. Maybe it would be the push Eddie needed to leave his mom and move on with his life, with Richie, with whatever life they could cultivate even if it was scary for a little while. 

Or it would draw him deeper into her arms, scared of what love might mean when the entire world debated whether they were even worthy of being alive.

There's a jingle, the rustle of Richie's pants, ".....Your keys," he says like a coward instead, staring at the tile between his feet, holding them out to Eddie without looking.

Eddie has never broken up with someone before, but he knows that's what this is. Even if they never made anything they had official, this is a break up. It feels so much worse than just a break up though, it feels like years of daydreams about what his future would look like just crumbling apart to pieces under him. And he like Wile E. Coyote standing over the canyon watching it crumble, about to be taken by gravity. 

"Thanks," he says without feeling, and reaches back to grab them without looking at the boy. He can't bear to see his face, all twisted up with hurt. He knows it must look like his own. "Make good choices out there, Trashmouth."

Richie's mouth opens, then shuts. There's nothing adequate to say. The nickname feels cold on Eddie's lips, it hurts him down to his soul. So he nods without speaking, even if Eddie isn't even looking. 

"Get out of here, Eddie," Richie whispers, one final request from a desperate man. "Whatever it takes. Whatever you gotta do. Get out of here." He shoves his hands back in his pockets and leaves, and that's it. That's all. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's on the shorter side, but it's the last chapter before the big time skip to It Chapter Two

Richie spends the night on the clubhouse floor one last night, half praying Eddie finds him prone on the mattress that still smells like them if he buries his face in the sheet. They must have used it the most. Richie spends one last night wrapped in the smell of Eddie and early the next morning takes the first Grayhound bus out of town with only his keyboard, his backpack, and only one of the duffel bags he'd packed in Eddie's car. The rest he leaves behind for Eddie to find and dispose of as he saw fit. It was just stuff.

Regret was the biggest feeling Eddie had to contend with, over the next few months. Regret that he didn't leave in the middle of the night with Richie those affectionate evenings when he would beg for it, regret that he gave his mother one last opportunity to disappoint him, regret that he didn't turn tail and run with him when Richie begged for it in the hospital. Because if he thought things would get better after his mother left the hospital, he must have been some kind of idiot. 

Her clutches only get tighter and tighter and tighter still. She won't let him get a job, she starts actively checking under his tongue and in his cheeks to make sure he's taking all the medicine she forces on him, and he starts getting sick again. Sicker than he's been in years, since he figured out how to fake taking his meds. And she seems to revel in his illness, delighting in taking care of him while he's feverish and weak, unpacking his car for him and putting every scrap of paper back into his room in exactly the way it was before. 

Maybe she should have just died. Maybe Eddie should have let her die. Being stuck like this is just agony. She keeps reminding him that nobody can love him like she can, that nobody will ever love him but her. 

He'd almost believe her, if it wasn't for the memory of Richie that sits like a ghost in his chest. And then... Myra. 

It's not like Eddie's in love with Myra. She's way older than him, but that's not why. The months stretch on, and Eddie passes his ninteenth birthday, and it's spent completely alone with his mother, watching that same fucking movie. Eddie kind of wants to die. Myra's 31, and she's pretty in a normal way. She's never been married, and she thinks he's handsome. She just moved to town, looking for work, and Eddie's mom likes her immediately.

Richie _had_ told him to get out of Derry by any means necessary. He proposed after knowing her for just a month, and she said yes. And better yet, his mother approved. This was the way out.

Meanwhile, every minute of Richie's life is spent working for Eddie. Ironic, considering their last conversation, and maybe it didn't always feel like it at times, but Richie lands in Chicago and hits the floor running. He's lucky they decided to go in summer, because Richie does end up sleeping on the street for a while, thankful for Eddie's patient reminder for him to pack more clothes than he thinks he needs because 'We're probably not going shopping for a while' otherwise Richie would have left his entire wardrobe in his dresser, which meant he'd have been stuck wearing the same thing for the two weeks it takes Richie to get established.

He takes a job at a bar in the city, bussing tables and crashing under the counter past close. He smelled like peanuts and beer most nights, but it was a place with a lock and they let him store his shit there, so he couldn't complain. Richie's hard work pays off, his hyperfixation on his singular, one-track goal pushing him to rise from busboy to bar tender, from floor-sleeper to roommate.

After two months, Richie is offered a job as an assistant in a radio station after talking with one of the regulars. It's good money, _career_ money, and it's enough to land him his first one-bedroom apartment in the city overlooking the lake on one side and the cityscape on the other. Another month passes and Richie buys a TV, he buys a cellphone, he gathers a following of coworkers who laugh almost every goddamn time he says a line or quip at the water cooler.

Richie buys a sofa the color of Eddie's hair, buys the expensive, high-thread count sheets he'd talked about in depth, the kind that wouldn't break him out in a rash. Richie tailors the entire apartment to the life they had planned, and it only takes him 6 months longer to do it than they estimated. There was only one thing missing.

Well, two, if he counted the dog-- but that could wait. Richie had a court case in Derry to get to, and someone to pick up.

If Eddie knew that Richie was coming back for him, he would never have done this. His plan had been to marry Myra just long enough to get the fuck out of Derry without his mom clawing at his back, and then once he was somewhere safe and free and most importantly _away from his mother_ , he would start looking for Richie. He'd scour phone books and the internet in search of him, relentlessly until he found him by any means necessary-- he'd hire a fucking private investigator, if he had to. And then he'd divorce Myra and they'd get on with their lives a little bit behind schedule. 

If Richie had said he'd be back... if any number of things had happened to let Eddie know things were about to shake out the way they were about to, he would have made a lot of choices differently. 

His mom, of course, had to make a big fucking deal about him getting engaged. The only person from his friend group that's left in Derry is Mike. Ben was the last to leave, just a couple months ago, and even though Mike and Eddie had never been the closest out of their group, Eddie has been clinging to Mike like a lifeline in a storm, and Mike indulged him if only because one glance at Eddie's situation could tell even a stranger everything there was to know about the fucked-up state he's been living in for the past half year. 

But one person doesn't make an engagement party, so his mom invites all of _her_ friends. It's a house full of middle-aged women and Mike, and one very miserable, very tired Eddie in just a dress shirt and jeans in the ktichen ladling punch into a plastic cup. He's too tired to even care about how unhygenic an open punchbowl is in a party full of strangers, all he knows is he saw _someone_ put liquor in it, and he needs to get as much of that into his body as possible as fast as he can, so he chugs one cupfull and then a second and ladles himself a third, right by the kitchen door that leads to the back porch.

It takes him the better part of two days with a little extra time added on for a quick rest-stop nap, but Richie drives himself-- yes, drives, with a brand new lease on a 1993 Honda Accord and a fresh license, too-- halfway across the country, back to that sleepy, shitty, pissfuck of a town called Derry in the middle of sleepy, shitty, pissfuck Maine. It was cold, his car skid plenty of times, especially as highway gave way to country roads-- but Richie gets there by 7pm the day after he leaves, and he considers it a win.

When he pulls up to the usually sleepy Kaspbrak household, the last thing he was expecting was all the cars, though. He'd been expecting a wire perimeter, maybe guard dogs, an armed battalion of militiamen for him to fight through in single combat-- he'd been expecting no less than 5 locks on the front door and bars across every dark window, and surely Eddie's car gone from the driveway. Being realistic, at the very least, he expected to see a dark, quiet house, for this time of year and this time of day-- at most one light in Ms. Kaspbrak's room, maybe one in Eddie's.

But the house is lit up like a Christmas tree. Every single window pours light, and there are so many cars Richie can't even park in front of his house like he'd planned. He parks just across the street instead, with enough open space in front of his car that they should be able to peel right out. Hell, even the windows were open, revealing gaggle upon gaggle of women that looked atrociously like clones of Eddie's mom. 

Dear god, what hell were they putting Eddie through? He had to be getting experimented on as they speak.

Pulling the collar of his leather jacket up around his neck, Richie ducks his head as he quickly half-skips over the road, head low, face down. With luck, if anyone sees him they take him as nothing more sinister than a nighttime power-walker. Worst case they think he's just some weird guy walking around, but the last think he needs it to be identified by any of these Sonia-clones.

The kitchen is the best bet, and it's to the kitchen Richie goes. Richie knows by now how to get from the kitchen to Eddie's room, he could probably do it with his eyes closed as this point, and he crawls into Eddie's back yard and peeks through the window-- and immediately his heart clenches, his entire body soars. There, right in fucking front of him was Eddie, and Richie's breath leaves him with one heavy gust. 

He had to get his attention. He had to. Richie taps a soft knock into the glass on the kitchen door, a shave-and-a-hair-cut rhythm. His go to.

Eddie's head snaps up so fast it makes him dizzy, and his eyes widen at the sight of Richie standing at his back door. The first thing he feels is joy, he hadn't heard a single word from the boy in half a year, and excitement made his entire body clench. He didn't know Richie was coming back, where he was even coming back _from_ , or what he was doing here, but seeing his face again makes his entire body shoot through the ceiling and into the stratosphere as the dull, painful truth of the last few months came into sharp focus and let him know just how desperately he'd missed the other boy, how badly he'd been lying to himself to think that he hadn't. Or even that he'd just been able to tolerate the hurt. He'd just been ignoring it. 

But then panic sets in immediately after. There's Richie, standing on his back porch, while the Kaspbrak house is teeming with people here for Eddie's fucking _engagement party._

The two emotions are equally as intense and equally combatting for the forefront of his mind. He's alone in the kitchen except for a pair of women he doesn't even know chatting in the corner, so he glances over his shoulder, sets his cup down on the counter, and slips out the back door without a word, into the crisp mid-December air. 

"Richie, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" he hisses, his voice way higher pitched than he would have liked.

"What the fuck is going on in there?" Richie asks instead of answering, looking absolutely fucking delighted. His entire body is humming, his soul is singing. There he is, Eddie fucking Kaspbrak in the fucking flesh, right in front of him. There he is, alive and well and not covered in IVs or with a fucking breathing tube installed or-- nothing. He's standing. He looks good. He looks fucking _great_. Well, maybe not great-- he looks fucking exhausted down to his bones, with bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks, but he's _alive_ which makes him look like every single dream Richie has been having since he'd left, and then some. He could practically hear the angels singing.

Looking over Eddie's shoulder, Richie squints through the curtains at the shadowy figures still moving throughout the house, shaking his head, "Is your mom having a Tupperware party? And she's got you all dressed like a little bitch serving punch," He coos insufferably, leaning forward to tug smugly at the collar of Eddie's shirt, "I love the butler look, we'll have to keep it in mind for when I get my hands on you--" 

A quick glance was spared over his shoulder. He'd hate for one of those previously-conceived militiamen or dogs to sneak up on him. He really didn't trust Ms. Kaspbrak farther than he could throw her.

Richie leans over once he's satisfied there's no danger, grinning wickedly up at Eddie, eyes bright, smile brighter, "I'm busting you out of here. I got a car out front. I got an apartment, I got a _job_ , you don't even have to do a goddamn thing, I can afford it all on my own-- It's in Chicago, one of your schools was there, right? I figure we could say you deferred enrollment, get you going and when you're done we could go further west, or New York City if you wanna stay out here--" and then he shakes his head, "Sorry. Getting ahead of myself." He looks back at Eddie, actually bouncing, a toddler at Christmas, "We gotta get you packed, kid. You're coming home."

Eddie feels dizzy as he listens to Richie, detached from his body all over again, like he had been in the hospital that day. It's too much to take in, too fast. Richie had a place? Wanted him in that place? Richie still wanted him? Oh god, Myra-- 

"Richie..." he swallows hard, it feels like there's a hand around his throat. "I-- you-- really?"

 _Could_ he just bail? Leave everything behind? Surely if his mom had this many friends she could just pull out of the woodwork for an engagement party, she wasn't nearly as alone as she made herself out to be. It wasn't really just her and Eddie against the world... Myra would be sad, but he's only known her for about five months as it is. She'd get over it pretty quick...

"Uh... Yeah? I didn't drive this long a way to say _hi_ ," Richie says, rolling his eyes and nudging at his chest, "Come on, dude. Underwear, medication, inhaler, whatever. We gotta grab it and fuck off before your mom notices you're not serving her on bended fuckin' knee." Richie drags a hand through his hair, blowing it awkwardly out of his face. He has more stubble on his jaw now, artistic, almost, the stubble of someone who can afford to look unshaven and not have to worry about it. 

It wasn't like people gave a shit what you looked like at his work. It was a radio station. You could have three heads and they'd take you if your voice was nice enough.

Clapping his hands twice, he reaches around to give Eddie's ass a little swat, urging him back inside, "I can stay watch in the kitchen if you want, or-- would it be better if I stayed out here? Probably out here, right? I can entertain a bunch of big ladies but if your mom hears me she'll probably shoot me with her laser eyes and I'd be fuckin' done for."

"Richie--" Eddie starts, but he doesn't know what to do. Protest? He doesn't want to protest, but there's so much to explain, so much to justify. 

But then there's a cry from inside, as one of his mom's friends recognizes him through the window as she comes around the corner and gives up the ghost all at once with a shrill, "Is that _little Richie Tozier?!"_ Oh god. Eddie's stomach sinks as she opens the back door and grabs him by the front of the shirt, dragging him inside the kitchen. A few heads pop around the corner at the sound of her crowing, she's clearly a little bit drunk. Richie doesn't even recognize her. "Look at you, so tall now! Come to give well wishes to your old friend for his engagement?"

Oh god, there it is. Eddie didn't have time to explain. His heart is pounding in his chest as he steps into the kitchen behind the other boy, offering him a look that has too many layers to be read in his eyes. He's scared, he's angry at his mom's friend, he's sad, he's embarrassed-- it's all so fucking much.

The word doesn't quite seem to compute right, a glitch in the matrix where surely he must have misunderstood something. Engagement? Oh, for Eddie's mom, maybe? That had to be it. There was absolutely no one even close to Eddie's age here, and considering the sheer amount of women it had to be that. A bridal shower for a woman destined to make some man's life Hell. Well, good for her, since he was taking Eddie--

"Hello there, uh-- Ma'am," Richie says awkwardly, glancing across the room at Eddie in confusion, giving him a 'what the fuck bro' look before turning back to the throng at large. This was fine. This was still salvageable. Talking was what he did best, right? And surely the Missus would be feeling amenable if she'd finally hooked herself a guy so desperate for pussy that he'd fuck the aura of 'Psycho' trapped in one woman's body. "Yeah, haha, I was just stopping by to say congrats to Eddie's mom for the engagement. I'm really happy for her. Just glad it finally happened, you know?" He's trying to gesture for Eddie to run while the drunk ladies coo over him. It was fine. If Eddie snuck out while they were paying attention to him, then Richie could just meet up with him as soon as they let him go and went to play pin the titty on the turtle. Or whatever bridal showers did.

"Sonia?" the drunk woman laughs way too loudly, and as if being summoned by her name, Ms. Kaspbrak herself comes around the corner, her sights set on Richie from down the hall, and Eddie wants to die. 

He wants to die, he wants to _die_. Dying would suck less than this. How dramatic would it be if he just reached across the counter and grabbed one of those knives from the block and slit his throat while standing here? It'd definitely make a fucking _statement_ \-- 

"Something must've got lost in translation, sweet heart, the engagement party is for Eddie!" she continues, reaching out to pat Eddie on the shoulder drunkenly. Eddie looks like he wants to melt through the floor, frozen on the spot, and he can't muster the courage to look up at Richie, this time.

Richie and Ms. Kaspbrak make eye contact, and it's her Richie stares at as the correction is so helpfully supplied. He stares as she lifts her chin at him, stares as she wades through the sea of her laughing, drunken demonic familiars like Moses parting a pyramid-scheme sea. He stares as she smiles, sickeningly kind in the mouth while her eyes lack all warmth. 

And he feels his heart jerk and twist in his chest like a puppet whos strings had all been cut, turning to look at Eddie for refusal, for rejection, for anything that could prove that they were lying, all of them--

But Eddie doesn't look at him, face twisted into a confusing miasma of pain and anger and sadness and frustration and a deep, deep sorrow just there in the tremble at the corners of his mouth. Richie wants nothing more than to kiss away that sorrow, to hold Eddie by the face and tell him everything would be alright. They would get out of this. He would get them out of this. So he tries, anyway. 

"That's cute, ma'am, but I think there's a mistake," Richie says politely, "Eddie's got a school to attend in Chicago, and I'm here to take him there. I'm sure whoever it is has got some real country charm, but I think we can all agree Eddie's got bigger fish to fry, right?" He opens his arms like he's going to get support, and only sees a sea of faces once-smiling, now slowly flickering into confused scowls.

"Eddie? What's going on?" 

Another woman's voice cuts through the rest, and a new woman enters the now very crowded kitchen. The once rowdy house is silent now, and all eyes are on them, peering around corners, down the hall, curious and nosy at the scene taking place by the back door. Richie looks up to see Mike stepping out from the living room with concern furrowing his brow, confusion taking its place as he absorbs the sight of Richie fucking Tozier standing in the middle of the living room. He heard he left, like half a year ago. 

This new woman is pretty in a normal way, and nearly twice Eddie's age, and she steps right across the kitchen to put a hand on the back of Eddie's neck. Her nails are painted the same shade of pink as her lips, and she looks between the boy she has her hand on, and the boy standing across from him. "Eddie, baby, who's this?"

Eddie is silent for a moment. He can keenly feel every pair of eyes on him, the weight of everyone's combined gaze, and worst of all his mother, standing all smug in the doorway. What could Eddie possibly do, here? Run away with Richie? Cut off all ties with his mother? Announce to this entire gathered group that he's a queer? His mother will be furious. He might be able to live with that... but it's Richie. She would do anything she could to ruin Richie's life, and if it came out that Richie was queer? She'd hound him for the rest of her waking days. She'd call his jobs to get him fired, call his apartments to get him evicted. She would make it her personal mission to never again allow Richie to close that closet door, she would make his life impossible to live.

He couldn't let her do that to him. He would rather not have him at all, if it meant Richie would be able to live his life. Or at the very least, let him go now, so he can follow up on his plan to track him down later. Chicago, he at least knew where to start, now. 

"This is Richie," he finally answers. "My... best friend, from when I was a kid. We don't talk anymore."

A little bit of the wind seems to ebb from Richie's sails, and he turns to Eddie with a confused furrow of his brow, "We just fell out of... communication. While I was setting up in a new city," Bless his heart, Richie was still trying to play along, trying to follow Eddie's lead and step where he stepped. Surely Eddie must have had a plan. He must have known something Richie didn't. Was he playing naïve so they could leave later? It would have been nice for any sort of indication of that. A flick of the eyes, an abrupt dismissal, anything?

There's no way for him to read Eddie's face, a muddy array of almost everything a human could feel on one face, minus any happiness or pride or joy. Richie looks over his shoulder to Eddie's mom, and he can already feel the way his entire body tightens. Her approach has slowed considerably, as if aware that her presence would bring an end to whatever this was. Like she wanted to take her time.

"Eddie, dear," As if on cue, Ms. Kaspbrak calls for Eddie over the throng, "Why don't you introduce Mr. Tozier to your lovely fiancé! They really do make such a darling couple, don't you think? My Eddie's always been so mature for his age."

The words have their desired effect, making Richie feel small and immature under the weight of her gaze. But not enough to give up. He'd come all this way, goddammit.

"Listen, I was just telling everyone that I'm sure you're real nice, Ms. Whatever," Richie gestures towards Eddies.... _fiancé_ flippantly, hand flapping, "But unfortunately, Eddie's got to come with me back to Chicago to start his life. It's nothing personal," He says, holding out a hand reassuringly, "But he's a young man with the rest of his life to lead. I think we can both agree it'd be a shame to see his potential squandered so soon into adulthood." 

In hindsight, Richie probably should have stopped asking a group of people who clearly didn't agree with him to do just that. It wasn't working out super great for him so far.

"Richie, stop it," Eddie says in a low voice, a fine tremble starting up in his whole body as fear grips him from all sides. He can't let Richie carry on like this in front of all these people, he'll ruin his life without even meaning to. He has to save Richie from himself. "This is Myra. My future _wife_. Myra, Richie. My ex-best friend."

It's harsh, and it's cold, but he can only hope beyond hope that Richie will know he's making it up, pulling a Lassie to get him to leave so he can find him later. It's the least he can hope for. 

"That's right. Mike's his new best friend," Ms. Kaspbrak says smugly. "Isn't that right, Mike?" Mike looks petrified, to suddenly be called upon in a house chock full of white ladies, and swallows hard, just raising his hands in surrender without a word. Ms. Kaspbrak laughs. "Oh, we love Mike."

"You're crashing the party, dude," Eddie says firmly, unable to make eye contact with the other boy. "You gotta go."

"That's--" Richie's brain clearly skips like a CD with a scratch, his brain going in fifteen different directions and his heart going in fifteen alternate ones. He can feel his throat closing, the familiar, heavy weight in his chest of otherness seeping into his bones, "Look, if we could just have a second we could figure this out--"

He's interrupted by Ms. Kaspbrak's harsh bark of laughter, and of course he was. He couldn't have actually expected to get a second alone with Eddie, "You're at _my_ house, Mr. Tozier. Unless you've come to assault me again, I think it'd be best if you left." 

Richie's head snaps to her, feeling anger like an old friend rear its ugly head, "Oh, _please_. Assault you, we both know I--" No. That wasn't what he was here for. This wasn't what he was here for. "Eddie-- Eds," Richie says turning back to the boy in question, the boy of the hour, the boy Richie had worked so hard to save and would move any fucking mountain for--

He's unable to even spare Mike a second glance, knowing full well that whatever game this was, he was just a pawn. Poor guy. He'd call him later.

Full, empathetic attention goes to Eddie. "It's okay, Eds," Richie says slowly, treading carefully, fully aware how his eyes have gone overbright and wet, and how his voice breaks on the nickname, "We can do it now. I have a job, I have an apartment, I have cash, Eddie, it's not like last time," He gestures, "You don't have to listen to her--" 

"I _SAID_ , I think it'd be best if you _LEFT_ , Mr. Tozier," Ms. Kaspbrak's voice goes shrill. Myra's nails across the back of Eddie's neck sink deeper into his skin.

"We're TALKING, just let us TALK!" Richie snaps, panic making his voice high and his temper flare, "Eddie--" He says quickly, turning back to him and hoping to god he didn't ruin everything with his outburst, "We can fucking do it, Eddie, we can do it together, we can get out of this fucking town, we can get away from that fucking bitch, everyone!"

It keeps getting worse, Richie just keeps making it _worse_. The people around them are staring now, and whispering. He can see the gears turning behind his mom's eyes. It's going to get so ugly so fast if Eddie doesn't put a stop not only to this, but to any suspicions they might have about the nature of their relationship. 

"Richie, I said STOP," Eddie's the one to raise his voice now, even as Myra's nails on his neck turn uncomfortable. "Don't come into my house and call my mom a bitch. I didn't invite you to my engagement party for a _reason_ , dude. I was stupid for thinking we were gonna run away from home just cause of some stupid plan we made up when we were kids. You're being _weird_. I'm a grown man now, I'm getting married, Myra is--" it's still hard for him to say affectionate things to her and mean it, but he manages to grit it out anyway. "I love her, man."

God, but if Richie had just come by yesterday, or even tomorrow. If he hadn't shown up _now_ , with all these people here, with all these people he has to put on this gut-wrenching performance for. All just to keep them safe, because Richie apparently wasn't thinking about safe. One of them had to-- and it's no surprise it's Eddie. Eddie has always been the one looking out for their safety while Richie barreled full steam ahead.

The crowd of women coo their adoration for the sentiment as Richie's face twists in confusion, in pain, in surprise. He looks over at Eddie like he can't understand what he's saying, like he's finally gone someplace that Richie can't follow. His eyes narrow in confusion, his eyebrows furrow, and he can feel his chest rising and falling too heavily, too unnaturally to be the breath of a calm man. 

It doesn't really matter what they think, right? Doesn't really matter what any of them think. He was out. He was gone. He was okay. Eddie was the one stuck. Eddie was the one hurt. Eddie was the one who'd been-- he'd been brainwashed, he'd forgotten, he'd been reprogrammed or stockholmed or--

"Eddie," Richie mutters, and if the boy couldn't basically read Richie's lips at this point, he probably wouldn't be audible at all. He swallows. "We both know that isn't true," He says. There's no room for Richie to take a step closer, the area too clogged with women, all of whom were immoveable in their indignation. He's stranded amongst them, a giant stalled in a sea of judgement. 

Desperate, Richie whispers, "Eddie, _I_...." He still can't bring himself to say it, but he doesn't need to. It hangs in the air as damning as though he had.

"Stop it!" Eddie shouts, he could hear how close Richie was to saying something he wouldn't be able to take back, as a flush of fear and anger turns his cheeks and ears red. He can see Richie teetering on the ledge, and it's going to be up to Eddie to push him by the chest by force to send him toppling back over to the right side of it, the side where it's safe. "If you keep acting this queer people are gonna think you _are one_ , man. You and I both know you're not, but if you keep acting like this someone's gonna get the wrong idea."

"Certainly wouldn't want that," Myra repeats, narrowing her eyes at Richie. 

"Mike, can you get him to his car?" Eddie says, desperate to keep Richie there for a few minutes, shooing Mike a frantic, desperate look with just his eyes that he knows Mike understands. If he can just keep Richie outside, if he can just get a chance to slip away and talk to him alone...

The look on Richie's face is twisted in pain and hurt, devastatingly hurt, achingly hurt, hurt like he's never felt before and had never thought he'd feel again. Was that was this was? Was that what this always had been? Is that why Eddie never told him he loved him? Richie feels like the floor was pulled out from under him. He looks from Eddie to Myra, then back again. His breath is definitely coming too fast now, his brain humming between his ears as ancient anxiety comes crashing back down on him. And he stays rooted to the spot, frozen and staring, stuck shaking his head and muttering a defensive, unconvincing, "N-No, man-- I'm not--" Like he's fucking 13 again.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Mike says in what he hopes is his most gentle voice, pushing forward, trying to wade through the women like low tide.

It's enough to break Richie out of it, enough for him to shove his hands in the air and hold them up in surrender, "Hey-- no-- no, hey, you're right, man, fuck me-- you're right--" He laughs, too high and tight to be real, and begins practically shoving his way through the crowd to get to the door. They part for him for the most part, only a few women getting in his way and making him twist and dance around them as he mad-dashes for the door, "I just thought-- we-- hey, you're right, though, you're right. I wish you, uh-- I wish you and Myra the best, man. I wish you the best, just-- would you let me _out_ of here--" He whispers to a woman desperately, finally brushing past Eddie just shy of shoulder checking him, "Sorry for-- interrupting your night, I--" He doesn't finish his thought as he yanks open the door and slips through it. He doesn't really have one.

He's gone before Mike makes it out after him, catching just the last glimpse of Richie's tail lights as he peels off, wheels squealing, back to Chicago.

Eddie has gone numb again as people start chastising the ghost of Richie before the sound of his boots have even left the lawn, and when Mike comes back in the back door with a sorrowful expression, Eddie feels his stomach sink. 

Well, this just means he'll have to take things the way he originally planned. He'll just have to get out of Derry with Myra, and start looking for Richie then. It'll be a little harder now that Myra knows he exists, but he knows a thing or two about hiding his relationship with Richie, by now. He curses the other boy for coming back _today_ of all days, but he knows in his heart that he'll get back to be with him someday. 

All he has to do is play it cool, and get the fuck out of this city. Then he'll find Richie, leave Myra, and they'll adopt a dog together, like they were always supposed to. He'll just take it one day at a time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're into Chapter Two now baybee! big time skip ahoy!

So much has happened, in the last few days. 

Eddie was reunited with the love of his life (Remembering the fact that he _is_ the love of his life has been a complicated and confusing process that he hasn't quite made it out the other side of yet)

Eddie was stabbed in the fucking face by a lunatic (Eddie stabbed that lunatic right back) 

Eddie was reminded of the fact that he just freezes up in the face of danger. Boy he sure does fucking love being the one unreliable variable in the group, the one that the others are _angry_ at for not being able to push through and deal with truly insane levels of stress. As if any of them should be able to deal with this, as if _he's_ the outlier for being the one fucking person in the group who can't just deal with it. 

And then Eddie got stabbed again. But this time much, much worse. This time he can't breathe, and it doesn't even hurt, which he knows has got to be a bad sign, it should definitely _hurt_. 

He's barely holding on, just focusing on his breathing as he watches his friends fight that demon fucking clown from a distance, through a haze of numb fatigue. He can feel the edge of oblivion calling to him, the darkness fading in around the edges of his vision, but he refuses to give up. He's not going to let that fucking clown win, he has too much to live for. 

Namely, one of the people crowding over Pennywise snarling insults at the deflating clown. A man Eddie had forgotten about completely until just a couple days ago. Worse, he can _remember_ forgetting. He remembers leaving Derry, determined to find him, and he remembers Richie just... slowly fading from his mind, until there came a day that he pulled the phone book down off the shelf to look for him, and he just couldn't remember who he was looking for, so he put the book back on the shelf and continued with the rest of his day, and he never touched that phone book again. 

He can't leave it like that. He can't let that be the end of their story-- but he's fading fast. He feels cold, and so fucking tired, his eyes hooded and dreary as he watches his friends crush Pennywise's heart together in their clasped hands. He wishes he could be there with them to share the triumphant moment. 

The world falls down around them, and Richie can only think about Eddie. 

The others try to pull Richie to the surface, citing impossibility thanks to the sheer fucking fact the entire world was coming down around them and they needed to get out _now_ and Eddie was dead already. But there was no reasoning with Richie. There was no stopping him, like a bulldog attached to a tree with twine. There was no world where he could be stopped from getting to Eddie, and while the other Losers shouted desperately about needing to leave, now, about not being able to fit Eddie-- 

Richie slings Eddie over his back like he's little more than a fashionable sweater. He ignores his own aching bones, he ignores his own distress. As the rest of the Losers take off down the pipes, Richie hustles after them only limping slightly under the weight of Eddie and through the steadily growing stream of water, as the earth begins to reclaim the cave that had held Pennywise for so long through spite alone.

Something weird comes over Richie then, something he would never be able to explain if it was asked of him. He became driven by the sole need to keep Eddie safe. Through holes that could only fit one body, Richie shoved Eddie ahead of him and pushed him up on his shoulders, relying on Bev or Ben to helpfully reach back and support Eddie when Richie couldn't. They shove forward, avoiding heavy chunks of plaster and foundation as they climb higher and higher back into the house, into Derry, into fucking reality again, and Richie holds Eddie across his back long past his knuckles going white and his arms seizing and shaking, and all the while he listens to Eddie choke and wail as if they're ripping him in half. 

"---hear that, Eddie?" They made it. They made it. Holy fucking shit, they fucking made it. The sun is almost offensively bright in the sky, the air insultingly crisp and clean and fresh, nothing like the sewage muck they'd been breathing while dealing with the clown. There's a rumble underscoring whatever Richie is saying, but it's fine because Richie was saying it in a loop.

Collapsed in the grass on the median between the street and the house, Richie had pulled Eddie into his lap as soon as he'd been able to collapse onto the ground, entire body shaking, primed still from his one-track mind, his mission directive: Keep Eddie Safe. Strong, filthy hands cradle Eddie's jaw, knees raised to give the smaller man something to lean on, "We made it, man. We made it, Bill's-- Bill's calling an ambulance. We're gonna get you to help, okay? You hear that, Eddie? Eddie? We made it--"

Eddie barely hears anything at all, actually. His blood is roaring in his ears, his heartbeat feels too loud in his chest, and if it wasn't for the weary blinking of his hooded eyes, it would be easy to just mistake him for dead. His arms are limp at his sides, one of his shoes came off in the scuffle, and he's still bleeding from the aching wound in his chest-- but he's still holding on by a thread. 

  
"It's gonna take too long to get here," Bill's voice suddenly cuts in. "They said fifteen f-f- _fucking_ minutes."

"Eddie can't wait fifteen minutes," Beverly says desperately. 

"Get him in the car," Mike interjects. "Bill, you drive Richie and Eddie. Ben, you and Bev with me. I'll get the roads clear, keep traffic off you, and if any police try to stop us-- just ignore them. We can deal with them in the hospital parking lot."

"Come on Richie, I'll help," Bill comes to Eddie's side, and between the two of them, they easily lift him into the back seat of Bill's very nice car that Eddie's about to bleed all over. It doesn't fucking matter. 

Eddie is just whimpering as he's cradled in Richie's lap, barely holding on, but he clutches Richie's shirt in one weak hand, focusing on the way the fabric feels, reciting his own name in his head, anything to keep himself conscious and alert, sure that if he gives up for a second, death will take him. He's not ready to fucking die.

"Richie," he can hear the revving of Bill's engine as he peels off the side of the road behind Mike, who drives like a crazy person ahead of him to keep people from turning onto the roads, to keep it clear so Bill can floor it on the way to the hospital, and he rolls his head back to look up at the frantic man, tremors taking him every few seconds. "You... smell like ass."

The aura of the car is so chaotic, Richie can barely hear Eddie's feeble voice. He wouldn't've noticed Eddie was trying to say anything at all, if he wasn't staring hard into Eddie's face looking for any indication that he was fading. Richie's entire body is limp in the car, he barely has a fucking thought in his head worthy of Eddie's few, precious moments. He leans forward when he notices the barely-perceptible movement of Eddie's lips in the open air, putting his ear to his mouth.

And he laughs. There's nothing else he can do at the insult that reaches him instead of anything sentimental or gentle. He laughs because it's the only thing that makes sense. Thank god for Eddie fucking Kraspbrak. Thank fucking god for him. 

"Yeah, dude, no shit," Richie mutters to Eddie, voice warm and soft, his laughter even having been a tightly-grit thing that had mostly jerked its way out of his throat unnaturally, "I smell the same way you fucking look, man. You should feel lucky you're _able_ to smell right now," Maybe if they joke about it, the damage will seem less. Surely if Richie could joke about it, everything would be okay-- they could both use that ignorance, Richie thinks.

Eddie doesn't quite have the energy in him to laugh, but he does smile, turning his head to pillow it against Richie's chest, his teeth all pink from the blood in his mouth and staining his chin. He tips his head back again to look up at Richie, his vision blurry and dark, like he's looking through a piece of fabric. 

"If I say something kickass for my last words, is that a game over? Do I just die after that or do they just become normal words if I don't kick it?" he asks, talking just to fill time, even though it fucking _hurts_ to talk. The pain is sinking in now, which he thinks has got to be a good sign, because he couldn't feel much of anything as they were all carting him out of the sewer and up to the surface.

"Fucking asshole," Richie huffs with a wet sigh, shaking his head and furrowing his brow, "None of your words are gonna be your last ones, so if you've got something you've been saving, I'd hold onto it. I'm probably not going to remember in another 80 years by the time you finally decide to actually kick it." 

"In 80 years I'll be 120, retard," Eddie chokes out with a weak, whisper of a laugh.

"For the record, shitbreath, you being 120 was the joke. I was saying you were going to live for fucking ever so there was no way I'd remember what cool shit you wanted to be your final words-- whatever, it's not funny if I have to explain it," Richie leans over Eddie, squeezing him maybe a little hard around the shoulders. It's hard enough to remind both parties of Eddie's existence, of his life-- no matter how meager and thready he was, how much he seemed to fade.

The jostling of the car was making Richie's clothes begin to stick to him uncomfortably, and only belatedly does he realize that it's because he's not just soaked with sewer water and Pennywise bile, he's also completely drenched in Eddie's blood, from manhandling him since he was injured. His wounds were practically stopped-up with the material of Richie's shirt. 

Unable to help himself, Richie curls over Eddie to brush heavy, matted hair out of his face, tucking it gently behind Eddie's ear, fingers trailing down his neck, lingering across his jaw, "You should try and use any death-by-stabbing puns you had stored up, though. Statistically speaking, you probably won't get stabbed again." Probably. Eddie was proving to have a really awful track record for it, though.

Eddie grimaces, but it's with humor. "You mean like-- it was real _knife_ of you to pull me out of that cave while all of our friends were trying to convince you to leave me there? Some fucking friends they turned out to be--" he coughs, and blood speckles the front of Richie's already soaked shirt, immediately sinking into the fibers. 

He hadn't really taken a moment to think about that, yet. He was too tired to differentiate between voices, he doesn't know who was saying it, but he knows he heard some of them telling Richie that Eddie was a lost cause, that he was already dead, that they should just fucking leave him down there to be crushed to death by the cave-in, if the blood loss didn't take him first. It's too fucking scary to think about which one of his friends were trying to condemn him to die so they could save themselves, so he just doesn't try. 

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Richie tries to maintain some semblance of cool over his composure as Eddie's bitter laugh makes Richie feel ugly deep in his gut. He can feel that laugh in his very soul. It hurts him to think about. What if he had just let Eddie go, like they said? He's overcome with it, all at once, the _what if_ behind it all. 

Vaguely, he sees sirens flashing in their windows. He would run Eddie to the hospital if he fucking had to. But for now, he curls himself over Eddie's chest, nose tucking into the soft spot behind Eddie's ear. He can almost smell him there, despite the gunk, "Just-- hold on, man. Just stay holding on, okay?" He mutters, his voice weak as he gives into the emotions burning hot in his chest.

"Mike's gonna get in so much shit," Bill mutters from the front seat as a cop car comes up behind Bill's car, and a second tries to swerve between his car and Mike's, but he just lays on the gas harder. "We're just a few seconds from the hospital, I see it right up there--" 

When Richie looks back down at Eddie to let him know they made it to the hospital, he finds the other man's eyes closed. Richie's ears start ringing, and then everything happens very quickly. Richie is barely aware of it all as Mike swerves out in front of the entrance to the hospital in order to block the car that tried to duck into the drive that would have forced Bill to wait his fucking turn with Eddie dying in the back seat, and the car crashes into the side of Mike's. 

Bill tears ass into the parking lot with two cops on his bumper while a third pulls out beside Mike, and even with the sirens on his tail Bill careens around the bend and pulls up so close to the ER entrance he nearly smashes through the glass windows. 

"Go, Richie! G-Get him inside, I'll deal with the cops--" Bill says, already climbing out of the driver's door and raising his hands in the air as he jogs up to the cops, giving Richie a few precious seconds to get inside with Eddie before the cops notice and stop him. 

Richie doesn't waste any fucking time. Well, any more time than he could help. He had to pull Eddie's limp body out of the car, and it felt so much heavier now, fear and time having worked to make Richie's muscles heavy and his reactions slow. Hefting Eddie into his arms, Richie practically trips over his own bullshit fucking shoelaces as he runs into the emergency waiting room, ignoring the way all the inhabitants of the room gasped and shied away.

Richie couldn't blame them. They were both filthy, both covered in blood and various injuries, Eddie's in particular fucking _unreal_ , the giant puncture through his chest looked absolutely impossible. Richie collapses to the ground as a pair of nurses sweep Eddie out from his grasp and onto a gurney, moving very fast as the ringing in Richie's ears catches up to him.

He's aware of one of the nurses leaning over him, aware of them working on Eddie just a short distance away, unable to even bring him into the ER without being prepped, and without getting him stable. He's only half aware enough to answer questions about their names, ages, where they're from, what insurance are they on, how did this _happen_ \-- that last question earning the nurses a delirious half-laugh, completely devoid of humor.

Only when the nurses begin to circle and talk about taking Eddie does Richie pull himself clumsily to his feet, "I'm--I'm going with him," He says, pathetically, looking at the faces of the nurses.

"We're sorry, Sir, but from this point forward it's immediate family only. We appreciate you bringing him to us, but you look like you need to stay here and get checked out, anyway--"

"I'm NOT--" To the shock of everyone, Richie actually slams his fist on the tabletop beside them. He tries to speak again, calmer now, "I'm his immediate family, okay? He'd tell you himself if he wasn't fucking dying. Me and him? Close as can be, so PLEASE let me FUCKING come back with you guys--"

"He's being wheeled to surgery," one of the nurses adds, a little woman who wouldn't even come close to being strong enough to physically hold Richie back if he tried to barrel past her. 

"Richie," he hears Ben's voice from behind him, and turns to see Mike, Bill, Ben and Beverly coming into the waiting room, accompanied by two officers. None of them are in handcuffs, which is a good sign, and all of them make quite the spectacle together, every last one of them absolutely drenched in a revolting level of filth. "It'll be okay. Let them take him to surgery."

Beverly immediately breaks away from the others to charge across the room and throw herself at Richie in a tight hug that lasts only for a second before she pulls back to hold Richie by the arms and look up at him. 

"He's okay? He made it? Four minutes, Richie, we made it in _four_ minutes--" she says breathlessly, as the officers come up beside him.

"That was a dumbshit thing you people did," one of the officers says, his hands tucked in his belt. "But I understand it was to save the life of a dying man?" 

He's only semicoherent of the sudden, fresh influx of activity as Eddie is wheeled away behind them. He does what Ben says out of instinct, returns Beverly's hug out of impulse, but otherwise, without Eddie right there, right in his grasp, it's impossible to know what to do. All of his plans involved keeping Eddie safe. How could he do that from out here? 

It takes the full brunt of the Losers looking at him expectantly for an answer before Richie even thinks of nodding, awkwardly and heavily, like he'd forgotten how to for a second. 

"Yeah," Richie says finally, when he remembers he has a voice too, "Eddie-- Eddie Kaspbrak. Lived here a long time ago. Mom named Sonia-- Sonia Kaspbrak. He's the one-- he--" He gesutres behind him, to where another segment of nurses were now cleaning up the mess made by Richie and Eddie's entrance. 

Looking up, Richie looks at Bill, then Mike, then Bev and Ben, "You guys aren't-- getting arrested, right? I can get a fucking kickass lawyer here in four fucking hours, man. Five with traffic."

"That entirely depends on what the hell happened here," the other officer speaks up. "You all look like you were in some kind of zombie movie." 

"The house on Niebolt," Bill cuts in quickly, taking the charge when everyone else balks. "You know, the old run down one that's been abandoned forever? W-we went in there just to fuck around. We were all in town again for the first time in 30 years and we just wanted to drink together in the abandoned old house like we did when we were kids, b-but the whole t-t-thing--"

"Came right down on our heads," Mike continues when Bill starts to struggle, picking up what he's putting down. "We should've known, it was unstable even when we were kids, but we weren't thinking. You might want to get a team or something out there to cordon off the space, the whole house just-- came down."

"And that's how Eddie got hurt," Beverly adds. "When the house was coming down around us, he got-- _skewered_ on something. A piece of broken wood or-- or rebar, or something. We pulled him off and crawled out of the wreckage just in time for the whole thing to cave in."

"The house came down?" The officers glance at one another in surprise. "Shit, that old place has been condemned for decades-- you went inside?"

"Well of course they went inside," One of the officers says, sounding annoyed, "We should've closed that goddamn place down properly years ago, but it's a messy job and we just didn't get around to it. Every year, we must get about ten calls from that place--"

"It's probably best we went down there and caused everything to fall in on itself then instead of some kids, huh?" Ben pipes up helpfully from his side of the circle, though it's clear he's keeping his eyes on Richie, who had yet to say anything during the interaction and certainly didn't seem keen on it now.

Richie's leg had begun bouncing at some point, twitching up and down furiously as leftover adrenaline makes him stupid and erratic, hopped up on absolutely nothing at all and needing to come down. He needed to run a fucking lap, that's what he needed, just to get the energy out. 

"I'm-- I'm sorry," Richie says, and he can tell a few of his friends already want to pull him away. It was probably a smart choice-- "Do any of us look like we wanted this to fucking happen? Does any of this look FUCKING intentional?" His voice cracks as he's immediately pulled back by Ben and Bev in unison, shushing him lest he make fucking enemies of the cops.

There's a tense, awkward silence over Richie's outburst, and Beverly quickly steps in to intervene when a nurse comes by to try and put a blanket around Richie, taking it from her with a soft word of thanks, knowing that Richie would flip if anyone outside their group touched him right now. 

"Well, alright," one of the officers says, flipping open his pad. "You guys broke about twelve road safety laws getting here, but I'm willing to let all of that disappear, so long as you follow up with that person you swerved out in front of who T-boned you," he adds, glancing up at Mike. 

"Yessir," Mike answers immediately. "I'll get her insurance info as soon as I can."

"Don't leave town for a few days, let us check out the house and get back to you in case we have any follow up questions," the other officer says. "But this looks pretty cut and dry to me."

"We aren't going anywhere with Eddie in this state anyway," Beverly says as she unfurls the blanket and wraps it around Richie's shoulders. "At least one of us is bound to be here until Eddie is discharged, in case you need us."

"Thank you ma'am. Drive safer on your way out of here okay?" the officer gives them a nod, and then leaves with his partner, leaving all of them standing in a filthy, huddled heap in the center of the waiting room. 

"We should get out of the way," Ben whispers, and they carefully shepherd Richie to the side of the room, herding him like a wild animal they're afraid to frighten. It's not an entirely unfounded fear, Richie is clearly on the verge of losing his goddamn mind, practically vibrating with energy. 

This wasn't fucking real. There was no way this was fucking real. Were they really going to get off like that? Were they really going to be _believed_ about the house on Neibolt like that? Were they just going to believe Eddie was stabbed with a piece of _rebar or something?_ There was no way. There couldn't be any way, it didn't make sense-- 

And it was that thought exactly that had Richie shaking his head, even as he mutely follows the line of his friends to a smaller corner of the waiting room, where a nurse approaches them with a clipboard partially filled out with answers Richie had given at the front desk. He'd applied enough for them to admit him, but now they needed actual information: His address, his insurance, his next of kin, his contact information for work, for home. It's somewhat guiltily that the board gets handed over to Mike, who is the only one who can remember everything about everyone. 

"It's cool, I got it," he says, generous in the face of Richie's despair. The others let him gently take the clipboard, even though Richie looks at it like it personally betrayed him.

"What the fuck," Richie whispers, finally putting voice to the phrase repeated ad nauseum in his brain. "What the fuck, you guys? What the _fuck?"_ He hisses, shaking his head and leaning back suddenly in his shitty plastic chair he'd been sat in for his own good at some point-- not that it matters, because Richie is definitely bouncing now, shivering right through the blanket they'd supplied, though not with hypothermia. "What the fuck. What the fuck was that. What the fuck was that, what the fuck-- What the fuck, you guys? What the _fuck._ "

And all at once he buries his head in his hands, the heels of his palms digging and rubbing into his eyes, pushing on them like he's trying to keep them in their sockets.

"I know," Beverly is at his side in an instant, and she pulls him against her chest, squeezing the blanket around his shoulders. He's making it filthy, they're _all_ repulsive, but she knows the hospital won't complain to their faces at least. She tucks her chin on top of Richie's head, as Mike hands in the clipboard, and Ben gets up out of his seat to take up Richie's other side, winding his arm around the man. 

They're joined a moment later by Bill, who kneels in front of Richie to put his hands on his knees in a comforting gesture, and then finally Mike, who stands at their side, and puts his hand on Richie's shoulder. 

"They're gonna take good care of him," Beverly reassures Richie as much as possible. She wants to promise that they'll save him, but he was in pretty rough shape when they got here. She wants to have hope and confidence, but she's mostly just afraid for how badly Richie's going to break down if Eddie _doesn't_ make it. 

"I completely forgot about you guys," Richie whispers brokenly into his and, grinding his forehead against the back of his hand. He feels absolutely nauseous, sick with the implications of what it meant. Was it Pennywise who had took their memories, or was Derry cursed? Was it a trauma thing? If they separated again, would their trauma just repress the memory again as a kind of fucked-up self conservation thing?

He doesn't want to live in a world without his friends. He doesn't want to leave any of them ever again, even fucking Bill, piece of fucking shit little bitchass Bill-- Richie is engulfed in the warmth of their embrace, all of The Losers Club coming together around their shaking, buzzing friend. He commits the moment to memory, refusing to lose this, if nothing else. He didn't want to forget.

Shaking hands raise to grab at everyone he could. He squeezes Beverly's arm, Mike's leg and Ben's shoulders, Bill's head, like a basketball, too, even. He touches each and every last one of them just to reaffirm their existence, to prove they were real and present. 

"What happens? What-- what-- what-- do we _go home?"_ His voice cracks, "What will you guys do? What will _Eddie_ do, we can't leave him here--" His voice breaks.

"Honestly, I don't know," Ben answers. 

"We're not leaving Eddie," Beverly answers resolutely. 

"The cops told us to stick around for a few days, anyway," Bill adds. "You rented the townhouse out until the end of the week, right Richie? So we've got until then, at least, before we have to worry about other accommodations." 

"We need to get cleaned up before they finish with Eddie," Mike says. "They're not even going to let us in to see him if we're this filthy, that's a contamination hazard for someone with fresh incisions. Do you wanna come back to the townhouse with us? We can wash up, get in some clean clothes and be back before they're even done with Eddie's surgery."

"Leave?" Richie leans back like he was electrocuted, already able to feel Bev's fingers digging affirmingly into his shoulders, as if trying to remind him that she was there. Like he could forget. He doesn't look at her, only up at Mike, "What if something happens?" He says seriously, "You hit a guy, are you even _capable_ of driving?" Richie lowers his voice to hiss the last sentence, as if there isn't already an entire fucking waiting room of unwanted attention on them.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Richie pulls his glasses off of his face, trying to rub a clean spot into them with his filthy clothes, and only really seeking to smear more on them, making him frown furiously when he puts them back on. 

"Jesus fucking Christ-- there's gotta be a fucking-- guest bathroom, okay? There's gotta be. No fucking way there isn't," he snaps.

Mike sighs and squats down to put himself in Richie's eyeline. "Listen, I know you're scared. We're all scared for Eddie-- but you're gonna be a lot more pissed off if we all go get cleaned up, and then you're the only one they won't let in the room because you're still all messed up."

"Waiting here is going to be a nightmare," Bev tells Richie gently. "Just watching the clock? It'll go a lot faster if we have something to do for an hour."

"Jesus-- fucking--" Richie ducks his head again, taking too-deep of breaths to be healthy, clearly the breaths of a desperate man. He takes a second to compose himself, reigning himself in until at least his breathing levels out into deeper, slower pulls of air, taken with his head hung low between his shoulders. He doesn't look up when he speaks, not wanting to see any of them looking at him so fucking sadly. He hated this. Richie hated that he had no fucking control over what he was feeling right now, a creature of heartbroken, terrified instinct. "Can we at least take fucking _shifts?_ Half of us go, half of us stay here? In case-- In case something happens someone can call us and they won't-- have to fucking wait?"

"Okay, we can do that," Ben says. "Why don't you, Beverly and I go first so you can get back quicker and then you can just stay here and relax-- then Mike and Bill can go." 

"If anything happens, I promise I'll call you the second we get word," Bill says, handing his keys off to Ben.

"Half an hour," Beverly says as she helps Richie up out of his chair, halving her time estimate thanks to the fewer people they're bringing with. "Half an hour and we'll be back." 

Richie is a buzzing flurry of energy and fear as they get him into Bill's car, practically in a fugue state until they manage to get back to the townhouse. It's surreal, being back in here, even more surreal knowing that there's a room upstairs that Eddie was fucking _stabbed_ in, his blood still speckling the bathroom where it happened. Twice, Eddie was hurt-- which is more than the rest of them can say. Somehow, all of them got out un-fucking-scathed, but Eddie was stabbed _twice_. 

"Get cleaned up and in some fresh clothes," Beverly says, rubbing Richie's back. "You could pack up some things from Eddie's room too, if you want. His backup inhaler, maybe? Some clothes for him to change into once he's discharged? We'll be ready in half an hour to head back." 

Grunting, Richie nods and begins his ascent into their rooms-- had they always been adjoining? Had it been luck that made them adjoining, or fate? Had they even realized it? So much of the trip was a blur, so much had happened-- come to think of it, Richie wasn't sure if they even made it back to the rooms once. 

He doesn't bother to take in the untouched state of his room. He doesn't bother to ruminate on the world he lived in, the world he had to now figure the fuck out. Turning the shower on far too hot, until even the steam billowing out of the ceramic tub was too hot to stay in, Richie climbs in to take a shower only when he can't see himself in the mirror. 

There's a clatter from the tube, a muffled, grit-back curse word, and Richie quickly turns the water to a more manageable temperature, his skin turning an ugly, blotchy red where the scalding water had hit him. He stares at the spots until his glasses cloud over and he realizes, belatedly, he hadn't even taken them off. With shuddering hands he pulls his glasses off of his head and tosses them carelessly into the sink. They were already cracked.

And maybe that was the point. What had happened, had happened. They can't change it. They can't explain it. Maybe they'll never know why, or how it happened, maybe they'll never get all those years back with the people they loved. But they can fix it now, going forward. They can prevent it from ever happening again. 

He builds a delicate, meditative mindset in the shower-- one that's almost fully annihilated when he steps out of the water to find he's missed almost the entire side of his face in his cleaning, and he frantically jumps back in the shower to scrub at his face until it is squeaking and pink and raw from scrubbing.

Vaguely, there are sounds of other showers in the distance, the others in their rooms no doubt, probably going through their own version of what Richie is right now; contemplating the weird, splintering fractal their life had become in such a short amount of time. He digs through his duffel bag, still shoved hastily onto his bed and unopened, pulling on one of his worn, old band shirts and a flannel. He pulls on jeans that feel almost uncomfortably clean, even though he knew for a fact none of his PAs would starch his jeans without trying to be a dick.

He grabs his keys out of habit, his wallet and his long-dead cellphone. The clean clothes help him feel normal, as well as the tightness of his skin from the scrubbing. It's Eddie's room that brings him back to reality. 

Just as untouched as Richie's own, it definitely didn't look used-- but there was obviously a scuffle in the bathroom, a dark pool of blood in front of the bath tub, from where Eddie had been stabbed through the fucking cheek. Inside the torn-down shower curtain, there are light, tremoring lines of blood where Eddie's fingers had clearly rested and shook. There was even a puddle where Bowers had been.

If Richie hadn't put the axe through the dudes head himself, he might have been less sure about him actually being dead. He still hasn't really processed the fact that he murdered a man-- and honestly couldn't care less what kind of investigation might be going down in the library. Someone's bound to have found his body by now.

Quenching the need to vomit everywhere, Richie turns and leaves the bathroom, but only after grabbing the small, black medicine bag that said, "ESSENTIALS" in clear-print Arial font. One peek in it confirmed it was surely Eddie's core routine. After some huffing and puffing back and forth, Richie decides to grab a gray hoodie sweatshirt, too, a pair of thick socks, and a change of underwear, shoving the change of clothes and medical bag into a backpack he finds in his own room with his own mismatch of toiletries, which he dumps unceremoniously onto the bed. If Eddie's stuff comes out smelling vaguely like tobacco smoke and clove, that's not on him.

"OKAY, READY!" Richie calls, hopping down the stairs two at a time, "YOU CAN TAKE QUICKER SHOWERS THAN THAT!"

Beverly comes down first, her hair damp and wrapped up in a jaw clip to keep it out of her face. It's almost weird, seeing her clean after she'd been absolutely drenched in grime and blood, wearing a fresh pair of linen pants and a blouse that she's going to a fucking job interview. 

"Hey," she reaches out to grab and squeeze Richie's arms. "Are you holding up okay? Ben's going to be down in a minute."

She stands up on her tiptoes to inspect the crack in Richie's glasses with a frown, making a mental note to remind him to get new ones, since it's entirely possible he'll just put it off forever rather than deal with it. It doesn't seem like he wants to deal with much of anything that doesn't directly involve Eddie, and getting back to Eddie, and being near Eddie-- just a lot of Eddie, actually, curiously enough. 

Beverly doesn't mean to draw conclusions, but she can't quite help herself. She remembers how close they were when they were kids, she remembers how they were joined at the hip, how inseperable they were and how often they would hang out independantly to the rest. Just like how she and Ben would hang out, and she knows she didn't have innocent intentions to her time spent with Ben. Maybe it wasn't fair to draw parallels between them, but given the way Richie is acting now, she can't help but wonder. 

Screwing up his face in an unpleasant grimace, Richie turns himself so he can avoid Beverly's very astute scrutiny. He didn't like the idea of being under her gaze, not when her eyes looked so goddamn knowing and her hands were so goddamn soft on his arms and on his chin and-- augh, it was going to make him fucking cry again, and he could feel the mist beginning to cloud his gaze before he even said a damn thing. 

So instead he shakes his head and looks to the side, looks anywhere else other than at her so he didn't have to see that look in her eye or _feel_ that look digging into him like a spade. It was pity, it was regret, remorse, sadness for every single goddamn thing that had happened and might still happen. It's the same fucking look she would have given Richie if they'd left Eddie down there, but this one was probably better considering they... didn't.

"Yeah, I'm good, I'm good," Richie says distractedly as he shifts out of Beverly's grasp, stepping around her, "Just wondering how long it takes MR. TALL, TAN, AND FISCALLY SUCCESSFUL to get ready," Richie punctuates his demand for Ben by hitting the banister between every word.

Almost immediately he's met by the trotting, fresh-faced Ben Hanscom, a backpack of his own pulled over his shoulder-- though his looked notably much nicer than Richie's, "Sorry for the wait, guys. I was just grabbing some blankets and stuff, since we're probably going to be staying there for a while."

It makes Richie's mouth pull, like it's having a hard time choosing to grimace or laugh, "Great, we get it, you're an eagle scout. Can we get going already?" 

Ben leads the way back to the drive way and they're pulling back into the hospital parking lot in record time. As they come back into the waiting room of the hospital, Mike is just finishing up trading insurance information with the woman who hit him thanks to his swerving intervention, and Bill trots up to the three of them. 

"Still no word from the doctors on Eddie so far," he says, which is both a blessing and a curse. They don't know his status yet, but that _does_ mean he's not dead yet, becuse they definitely would have come out by now to let them know if he'd died. And it means that Richie didn't miss the opportunity to be there when they called them in to see Eddie after his surgery. 

"We'll take this shift, you and Mike head back and get cleaned up," Beverly says, giving Bill a pat on the arm to send him off, and she leads Richie back over to the seating area.

The next few hours are a fucking nightmare. Just sitting there, waiting and waiting for news. It's impossible to think that Eddie's still in surgery, that he's still being cut into-- what, four fucking hours later? What the hell are they doing to him in there, replacing his entire goddamn torso? Even as he thinks it, Richie is struck with a sudden memory of them pedaling side by side on their bikes while Eddie babbles incoherently about amputations caused by AIDS, frantically asking how one amputates a waist, right after Ben had been cut by Bowers. 

Shit, that was how they _met_ Ben. These memories just keep coming back in weird little chunks, showing up when he least expects them, reminding him of all the little pieces of their childhood that he forgot. 

He's practically in a fugue state, just dissociating in place as he waits for any word, trying to will time to pass quicker-- and then he hears it, all at once, someone saying Eddie's name, and he tunes back into focus in a hurry, catching the tail end of what the nurse standing in front of them is saying. 

"--Eddie will be out for a while, unfortunately, but he's out of the recovery room and checked into the ICU. Don't be alarmed when you see him, he's going to be hooked up to a lot of machinery for now to help keep him stable."

"How long is he gonna be out?" Ben asks, his brow furrowed and his hands clasped together. 

"A few hours, at least," she replies. "He just underwent major surgery and it took him a while to wake up from anesthesia, but he went right back to sleep. You can visit him as long as you're quiet and non-disruptive."

There was a very real part of Richie that was apprehensive about seeing Eddie. After all, with injuries as badly as Eddie had, what could even be done? What were they realistically going to be looking at? They said he woke up after surgery, surely if he was going to be a vegetable for the rest of his life they would have said something? And surely they would have known about it if he'd gone into such a state. They could have told then. They would have had to.

And so Richie is the first nodding. He's the first to agree to see him, already agreeing before they even lay out the process. They got cleaned, that was good. Apparently one of the first things they'd had to do to Eddie after stabilizing him was give him a full sponge bath to prep him for surgery. Distantly, they date the slurry of medicines and treatments they applied to save Eddie's life, but by that point they're already walking, and Richie is somewhere far, far away, preparing himself for what they were about to see.

When they arrive, though, it isn't nearly as bad as Richie had thought it was. Hooked up to all manner of tubes and machines, it wasn't actually that uncommon from the few times Eddie would be packed into a hospital as a kid. He hated seeing him there, and he hates seeing him here now, but the context is much different. And at least now they could say, 100%, without a doubt: this trip saved his fucking life.

Pale, gaunt, and looking much more yellow-blue than healthy and pink like he ought to, Eddie looked small and frail framed by the massive operation bed and empty, white room. Richie obliges by the doctor's rule to apply hand sanitizer as far up as the elbows for good measure before making himself comfortable, but he's the last to do so.

While the others go about looking around the room, Quietly making themselves at home amongst the equipment, Richie doesn't quite make it all the way into the room. He makes it just beyond the doorframe, just to the point where he's in the room, but not quite. The he has on the strap of his backpack is white. He stares, just _stares_ at Eddie, for a very long time. 

"He looks like a fucking kid in there, man," Richie finally says to the room, voice quiet, interrupting whatever conversation they'd been having dimunuitively about taking shifts and setting up sleeping areas with chairs and whatever else they could cobble together. How anyone could think about sleeping with Eddie right there, unable to even breathe without a fucking tube, was beyond him, "He looks so fucking small." Richie couldn't take his eyes off of him.

The others look among themselves, chests clenching with guilt and grief and sorrow. It's Ben who stands up first to guide Richie deeper into the room, helping him find a chair, the one closest to Eddie's bedside, left vacant just for him. None of them are addressing the way Richie's reacting to Eddie's injury compared to the rest of them... none of them want to be the first to say something about it, but Richie can tell they're all putting two and two together, as old memories unlock and new information surfaces. 

"He's gonna be okay," Mike says, without any of the confidence to promise that, but he goes and does it anyway because looking on the bright side is what Mike always does. 

Bill grabs the clipboard from the end of his bed, glancing it over, and whispers a soft "J-Jesus christ," out loud, prompting Beverly to look over at him. 

"What's it say, Bill?" she asks softly. 

"I-- I don't know if it's worth it to read it," Bill says, shaking his head and sticking it back in the plastic slot where it belongs. "He's alive now, that's what matters."

"Jesus fucking christ, Bill, you can't just say that and then not read it," Richie snaps, standing immediately from the seat and grabbing the plastic clipboard from its holder at the foot of Eddie's bed and skimming over it. Most of it he doesn't understand. What he does understand jumps out at unexpected times, like the surprising verbiage he of course understood to mean they had to physically vacuum blood from his lungs. Something about skin grafts, something about repairing muscle damage, something about a broken sternum and collarbone-- something about how if he'd been punctured just a few inches in any direction he would have just fucking died. It's overwhelming. 

All things considered, he didn't think he was being _too_ gay about it. Surely this kind of fear and reaction was rational for a friend. A best friend. Richie would surely be responding like this if it was anyone-- or maybe that was sort of the problem. The fact is, Richie wouldn't be responding like this if it was just anyone. But it was Eddie, and Richie couldn't help himself. 

Scowl back on his face, Richie shoves the clipboard back into its slot, this time trying to avoid the loud plastic snapping sound the accompanied his prior snatch. Dragging a hand painfully through his hair, Richie glances up in time to see more pitying looks shot his way from the rest of their friend group, and that pisses him off, too. 

"And would you guys quit fucking _looking_ at me like that?" Richie snaps. Ben and Mike immediately look away, but Ben and Beverly don't. They glance briefly at each other, but look right back at him. 

"Rich, we're just worried about you," Beverly says softly. "You're taking this... really hard." 

It's the most respectful way she can think to say that Richie is the one losing his goddamn mind. The rest of them are worried about Eddie, of course, but none of them had reacted this violently when they found out about Stan's death. They'd been sad, and then they got over it. Maybe because they had bigger things to worry about, or maybe because they can barely remember him enough to _be_ properly sad, and the grief will hit later. But right now Richie is acting like a tiger in a cage, pacing and frantic and grieving, and Eddie isn't even dead.

"Uh, _no shit_ I'm taking this hard, he was our _friend,"_ Eyebrows pulling over his eyes, Richie glances between Beverly and Ben like they've grown extra heads, their solidarity fucking repulsive right now. But of course it would be, they had apparently gone through some shit together.

None of them, Richie realized, had taken a second to realize the individual nightmares they'd all endured. For Bill and Mike, they'd had to live through theirs alone. Ben and Beverly had gone through theirs together, so of course they'd be tight, and Eddie....

It felt impossible that earlier today they'd been screaming about a fucking Pomeranian, and that wasn't even that long ago. God Richie would go and kick the shit out of that fucking Pomeranian right now if it meant he prevented them from going through this, "How am I the weird one for taking our friend lying here in a fucking medical cage hard?" Richie asks, gesturing furiously at Eddie, unconscious on the bed across from them, encased in wires.

"I didn't say you're weird," Beverly corrects quickly. 

"We're all worried about him," Ben adds. "You just--"

"It's okay," Mike cuts in. "It doesn't matter. Whatever this is, it doesn't matter. Richie can cope the way he's coping, and the rest of us can too. It doesn't matter if it's different, just lay off him." 

Ben and Beverly look at eachother with those knowing looks, but they seem to be willing to let well enough lie for now, as they sit back in their seats, and Bev lays her head on Ben's shoulder, twining her hand with his. 

Richie looks over at Mike, sharply. If Mike remembered everything, and had always remembered everything, then surely he remembered the last time they saw one another, in Eddie's kitchen, when Richie tried to fucking get Eddie to run away with him. Of all people, he'd be able to end this argument: so he's infinitely grateful when Mike chooses to shut it down, instead.

Breathing through his teeth, he turns away in time to see Ben and Beverly twining around one another like snakes, rolling his eyes as he plops down in his chair. He didn't even have to turn to know Bill was making sad puppy eyes at the display. He was so tired. 

"This is so fucked up," Richie mutters, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and squeezing. "Knew there was a fucking reason I skipped all those class reunions. Fuck."

"We're gonna make it through, man. Just gotta take it a little bit at a time," Mike says softly, and lays a hand on Richie's shoulder. 

A little bit at a time, as it turns out, is also agonizing. At some point Bev just fell asleep on Ben's shoulder, and nobody can blame her. They're all absolutely exhausted, and it's still fucking wild to think that _this morning_ they were fighting a fucking demon alien clown to _death_. 

All of them now have killed at least one person, but Richie is the only one who's killed two. How is it possible that a person can just kill someone and keep feeling normal after? Well-- none of this is fucking _normal_ , but they don't feel like murderers. What does a murderer even feel like? An itch to kill again? Some kind of guilt or remorse? There was no guilt over killing Bowers, and Mike and Eddie would probably say the same. 

It's at around nine pm when Eddie still hasn't woken up, five hours after he'd been released from surgery, that the others all start nodding off, too. They've gone too long and been through too much, and their bodies desperately need the rest that the hospital chairs simply won't allow. Bill is the first person to suggest that some of them go home while the rest stay with Richie-- but Richie tells them all to go. 

They know he won't leave, there's no point in even trying to convince him that he needs rest too, it'd just piss him off-- so they don't try. He has the things he packed, he has blankets and pillows, and his cell phone has been charging since they arrived so he can call them if Eddie wakes up. He'll be just fine keeping watching over Eddie on his own-- and truthfully, they think that if any of them deserve to be the one there when Eddie wakes up, it's Richie. So they ply their friend with hugs and kisses, and then shuffle off like the dead to drive home and get some sleep so they can return bright-eyed in the morning. 

And then Richie is left there, alone with Eddie, sleeping silently on the table with a tube taped into his nostril, fed down his throat just to help him breathe, like some kind of fucking cancer patient. Alone with him, Richie can see all the other damage on him now, the little things that the hospital hadn't bothered with. The scrapes and bruises on his knuckles, the bruising on his cheek from where they'd finally given the stab wound on his cheek some proper stitches, the hollow and shiny socket bruises around his eyes just from the trauma of everything-- he looks like a fucking zombie. But at least while he's asleep, he can't feel any of the pain his myriad injuries are going to saddle him with as soon as he wakes up. 

If anyone deserves that peace, it's Eddie. As the silence of the hospital finally begins to eke into Richie's bones, only punctuated by the steady beeping of the machinery around them, he can feel his shoulders and body beginning to relax properly into the chair. Of course he still doesn't look away from Eddie. It would be downright disrespectful to look away from him now, when someone needed to be watching him the most.

Richie would be suspicious of the quiet in this hospital if he didn't know better. If he didn't know _Derry_ better. Without that clown motherfucker, the town was just as boring as every other small town in America. The hospital was mostly used for airsoft gun accidents and the elderly, which meant that the halls this time of night were completely silent. Occasionally, there was the click of shoes on tile of the passing nurse, but it was otherwise completely silent. 

"Okay, Eds, you gotta wake up," Richie whispers after about an hour of sitting in silence. Maybe it just felt that long. Maybe it was longer. Probably not. Richie doesn't look at a clock to confirm or deny, just rubs his face, pushing his glasses onto his forehead and letting them stay there.

He talks through his hands, "You gotta wake up," Richie repeats, staring at Eddie like he can will it to be true, "--Cause _fuck_ , we gotta talk about Beverly and Ben, man. Did you see them holding hands the whole time? And Bill's pissy little frown like he just ate twenty fuckin' lemondrops, dude--" He manages to get himself to smile, at least, but it's a bit heavy and unnatural, and falls just as quickly.

Steeling himself, Richie reaches to take Eddie's cold, limp hand in his own, and he squeezes, eyes wet as he looks up at Eddie, then, voice tight, "Or maybe don't wake up, 'cause who wants to see that," He looks away, down the line of Eddie's prone form tucked so neatly under the covers. He barely looked real. "Maybe just wake up for me."

Like something out of a fucking fairytale, Eddie's eyes crack open. Richie suddenly remembers the moment that Ben had kissed Beverly to pull her back out of the Deadlights when they were kids, and if it was the contact of Richie's hand on Eddie's that woke him up, he kicks himself for the missed opportunity of his own bonafide sleeping beauty moment. 

Nevertheless, Eddie's awake. His eyes flutter slightly as he looks around the room, and he swallows thickly a few times, confused by the pressure of the thin plastic tube running down the back of it, and his hand squeezes around Richie's. 

"Rich?" he croaks, scanning the rest of the hospital room. He'd blacked out in the car, he remembers thinking that if he just closed his eyes for a second that he'd have the energy to stay awake, but it was the last thought in his head. He doesn't even remember dreaming, it's like an instant passed between that moment and this one, leaving him disoriented and confused. "Where is everyone?"

He's too shocked to speak, initially. Richie stares at Eddie like he's a miracle on Earth, like he's a freshly-born fawn seeing the world for the first time-- or maybe that was Richie over-exaggerating because in that moment, the entire world had turned into a rose-tinted version of itself. The lights were brighter, the air was warmer, Richie could swear he heard a love song in his fucking head--

"Left," he grunts, before his brain can process the question and answer like a fucking adult. He quickly clarifies. "They went to sleep, it's--" Rubbing his eye quickly, an excuse to press out any tears that might have gathered there without his permission, Richie pushes his glasses back down over his nose.

Richie leans in is chair to check his phone charging on the counter, squinting at the obnoxious light it brings into the dimly-lit room, "It's 4am, man. They just left a little while ago. Didn't expect you to wake up--" and as much as he wanted to keep talking to Eddie, wanted to keep doting on Eddie, steal every minute he could with Eddie, he adds, "You should go back to bed, though, if you can. I dunno how much the good shit they gave you is gonna last, so--"

Eddie's hands lift up off the bed-- and out of Richie's grip-- and he pats numbly at his face until he finds the tube taped across his cheek, and finally the pressure in his throat makes sense, so he drops them again to leave it be. It's not the first time he's had a nasogastric tube in his life, but it sure has been a long fucking time, not since before he realizes the truth of his mother's treatment of him and stood up to her. God, that was a long fucking time ago.

"How long has it been?" he croaks, turning his head to the side to look at the phone in Richie's hand, but he can't quite a view of the screen from this angle. "It was still... day time. Jesus. What the hell did they do to me?" 

He lifts his hands again, this time to look at the IV's that have been taped into place on the backs of his hands and inner elbows, each one of them feeding him a different medication. He's been in the hospital a lot in his life, but he's never been _this_ bad off. There was the time he broke his arm, and the time he broke his nose-- god, he remembers breaking his nose. He remembers being sent to Bible Camp for it, for some reason... he can't remember why, exactly. But he knows it was a punishment.

Richie quickly leans over to gently move Eddie's hands from the various tubes and lines feeding in and out of his body, making him look like some weird puppet more than just a weird fucking dude, "Hey, probably gotta leave those alone, bud, you'll blow your own fuckin' gasket if you pull one out accidentally." Ironic, Richie tutting over Eddie's hospital manners. It felt right, somehow.

"We got here 'bout one, right? Or two. I don't remember looking at a clock for a while, man, all of our phones were dead. You've been asleep for like, 10 hours. They worked on you for what felt like for fucking ever, too, then you stayed asleep after your shit wore off and," he gestures, a little lamely, "Here we are." It felt like the lamest, worst fucking reveal possible-- but he was actually feeling pretty lame and awful in general, so maybe it was apt.

With a heavy lean back in his chair, Richie is able to feel his shoulders release again, although now alongside the overwhelmingly warm sensation of Eddie being alive, that knowledge alone making Richie's entire brain go soft and stupid, "I don't know exactly what they did to you, man, but it was some fucking Iron Man shit. Think I read you got metal bones now."

Eddie's laugh is really more like a slightly harder exhale. "Alright, fuck, shit, I'm Iron Man now. Which one does that make you? Mike is definitely Banner-- Bill's _gotta_ be Hawkeye, and Beverly already looks like Scarlett Johannson. Ben's Captain America for sure-- I think that makes you Thor, dude. Metal bones is Wolverine, by the way, idiot."

"Oh, I'm sorry, didn't you say you're a _risk assessor_ for insurance companies?" Richie says, unable to help himself when Eddie fucking corrects him of all things. It feels so natural, he doesn't even hesitate, "Didn't realize that came with a mandatory PHD in the Marvel cinematic universe, asshole. I take it back. You can be fucking Wolverine and _I'll_ be fucking Iron Man. You don't deserve Robert Downey, anyway."

Eddie laughs a little bit harder then, but the moment is soured when he grimaces in pain as a dull ache settles in the center of his chest. "Shit," he groans, reaching up to very gently place his hand over the spot. He knows better than to rub or press or itch at incisions, but just the slight pressure of his hand on his chest helps the ache settle. He thinks back to what happened to him, and what they must have done to correct the damage. He must have broken a few bones, tore through several muscles, which are probably being held together with dissolveable staples on the inside at this point, until they heal. It's going to be a long fucking road to recovery from here, but he's grateful to be alive. 

He _is_ alive, he realizes, because of Richie. All at once he remembers how the rest of their friends tried to convince Richie to leave him there, and he has only the man beside him now to thank for the fact that he's even breathing at all. Dread and despair come over him as he realizes the thin line that had stood between him and death, and his eyes fill with tears as he turns his head to look at Richie. 

"Hey, you--" he starts, his voice choking up, and when he blinks tears roll down his cheeks. "Thanks. For carrying me out of there. I'd be-- I don't even wanna think about it. You're really fucking something, Trashmouth."

Richie's entire body feels like its caving in on itself at the crackly way Eddie's voice breaks on his name. He shakes his head, smiling sadly, sorrowfully, as he again pulls his hand away from his face. He leaves his hand there, this time, still shaking his head, "Yeah, well--" What does he say to that? Is there anything to be said to it? No problem saving your life, buddy, that's what friends are for? Not really true, considering the rest of the Loser's Club really woulda flunked that test.

So Richie clears his throat and looks away from Eddie's face, where he couldn't stop the feeling of wanting to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He doesn't, but it makes his nails itch. "With Benny boy all beefed up and Billy some gross fucking Hollywood bastard and Mike some sexy fuckin' Old Spice dreamboat, y'know..." he glances up at Eddie, "I wasn't gonna let myself become the ugly friend. Not when you were right there, stabbed in the cheek and all that shit." 

He tries to smile again. It's tense. At least it gets Eddie to smile a little, even if it's equally mild, thanks to the pain in his cheek that flares if he grins too wide. 

"Gimme a week to recover and 10 minutes with a steak knife, and I'll make you the ugly friend again," he says, reaching out to take Richie's hand out of his lap and gives it a squeeze, and instinctive motion he doesn't even think about or question-- like it was just instinct to do so. Richie's hand feels _good_ in his. It feels big and knobby and warm. It feels familiar, for a reason he can't place. 

While the others might have chastised Richie for deflecting with humor when Eddie was so vulnerable with him, for Eddie it's like a breath of fresh fucking air. The last thirty years of his life have been lived in a humorless joy vacuum, and he's scarcely found a reason to stop smiling since he was reunited with Richie. 

He remembers loving Richie, he just doesn't remember... exactly why, or how, or for how long. But he knows all the way down in his guts that his feelings for Richie are _different_ than how he feels for everyone else. He knows in his guts that if Richie had been the one who got stabbed, Eddie would have fought all of their friends just as hard to pull him out too, and he can't say for sure whether he would have done that for the others. He doesn't let go of Richie's hand.

Richie doesn't, either. He looks at their joined hands like a man contemplating the entire universe, but he doesn't talk about it, he doesn't think about it. He keeps remembering things in chunks, like finding chapters of a book strewn about and reading them in order of discovery, not chronological, little snippets of his life falling back into place one by one like puzzle pieces. Richie squeezes Eddie's hand, so small and soft in his own, not like his own was grizzled and hard from a life of strenuous labor, but Eddie's were soft-soft. Office work soft.

It takes a physical effort not to ruminate on the softness of Eddie's hands for longer than strictly necessary. It wouldn't do anyone any sort of good, especially not him, even if he was trying to savor every little squeeze and rub of his thumb across his knuckles. 

"The guys are gonna be pissed if I don't call them and say you woke up," Richie warns softly, not wanting to break the moment but also unwilling to say the overwhelming swell of emotions that he wants to say. They're all too dangerous for now, too many unknowns making it a risky game, "So I can call them and you can get all of that right now, but... probably whispered, 'cause of," He jerks his head conspiratorially to the hallway, the legions of nurses getting paid to prevent loud noises.

"Or," Richie goes on, thumb dragging over Eddie's, "You go back to sleep and we pretend like this never happened, and you can deal with them in the morning when shit isn't so..." 

"Much?" Eddie finishes with a soft laugh. He looks down at their hands, too, and only then seems to realize that it's probably a little bit weird to be a grown man just holding the hand of his other grown man friend, so he pulls it away casually to lay his hand on his chest incision again, trying to make it look natural and not like he's pulling away out of repulsion or fear. "Yeah, I think I'll go back to sleep. I'm still so fucking tired. You should get some sleep too, you could go back to the townhouse, if you wanted. I don't think I'm gonna pass away in the night."

It feels physically painful when Eddie moves his hand away, like doing so had ripped Richie's palm away from a pole it had frozen to. He feels tender and raw, and completely unable to express a goddamn minute of it. He can't. He clearly can't. 

But it still doesn't sit right with him, to leave Eddie as soon as he saw he was awake. "Do you wanna be alone?" He asks, sincerely.

No, Eddie doesn't want to be alone. The idea of being alone right now actually terrifies the crap out of him. And he knows that Richie is hanging on his word, that he would leave in an instant if Eddie told him to go home and get some sleep because he actually wanted to be alone. He knows, too, that if Eddie selfishly asked him to stay and suffer a night of uncomfortable sleep upright in a hospital chair, he would do that too. 

He _knows_ it would be selfish to ask Richie to stay, especially since he's probably going to be out cold within ten minutes and then Richie will just have to stay in the hospital room and either try to suffer through sleep or entertain himself if he can't. The right thing to do would be to say that he does want to be alone. 

But Eddie has never had a very strong will, and right now the idea of Richie leaving him feels like a fresh dagger to the face. He swallows hard, and shakes his head. 

"No," he admits. If it were anyone but Richie, being alone might have been preferable to their company-- especially if it was Bill with his puppy eyes or Ben and Bev who apparently couldn't keep their hands off one another now that they finally have the chance. But he'd much rather keep Richie right here, and know exactly which face he's going to wake up to first. 

"Yeah, no shit," Richie says, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh than a chastising condemnation. He tugs his shoes off of his feet, just to give himself something to do. "Are you cold?" He asks, when seeing his backpack reminds him. Grabbing it from the ground, Richie yanks it open to offer Eddie the hoodie he'd grabbed from before. "Sorry if it smells like cigarettes. Or weed. Or tequila, honestly, this bag's been through a lot."

He sets it on the bed between them, patting it like an olive branch. "I also got you socks if you want them. And in the morning we can try and figure out how you can brush your teeth 'cause I know you've gotta be wanting that." He smiles. He doesn't know why that feels important, why brushing his teeth mattered, but... it made his chest warm to say. He looks down at the bag, pulling it shut. 

His leg tries to bounce as he leans back in the chair. "I'll probably put my feet on the bed once you pass out, sound good? Just don't freak out and kick yourself in the dick."

Eddie doesn't have the strength to even consider sitting up and putting the hoodie on properly, plus there are way too many IV's in his arms for him to fuck with sleeves, and they'd need to check his incisions frequently-- so he decides to just unzip it and drape it over him like a blanket. It smells like Richie's bag, it smells like _him_ , and to have that so close to his face is enormously satisfying. He closes his eyes with a soft smile. 

"If you kick me in the dick I'll just get you back later," he mumbles, and those are the last words he says before he drifts off to sleep. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry i forgot to post a chapter today! ill be posting a second one later today to make up for it!

The next couple of weeks are a fucking roller coaster, for Eddie. 

Everyone came by the next morning when Eddie woke up again after the morning nurse came by to check his vitals. Richie finally called everyone in when he couldn't justify selfishly keeping Eddie to himself anymore-- though he had used helping Eddie brush his teeth with a bottle of water and a spit bucket as an excuse to stall... and then getting him breakfast so he wouldn't have to awkwardly eat in front of everyone... and then making sure the nurses got him all his medication so they wouldn't have to come in and interrupt their visit... and then helped Eddie get his socks on... and then made sure to wait until after the doctor's morning visit as they asked for Eddie's pain level and checked his incisions and everything-- but then finally Richie couldn't put it off any longer than noon, after he selfishly hoarded four hours of Eddie's morning all to himself. 

Eddie's a little overwhelmed to see everyone, and they're still definitely not talking about the fact that all of his friends wanted to just leave him for dead. He doesn't know if they're ever going to talk about it, or if that's just something he's going to have to live with for the rest of his life. 

The routine is comforting, at least. Eddie is so used to being in the hospital that by now he actually _enjoys_ the routine of hospital living. He finally calls Myra on the second day to let her know he's okay, a phone call that Richie leaves the room for, Eddie assumes to give him privacy-- but Richie stands just outside the door to listen to the faint, tinny voice of Eddie's wife telling him about the shitty day she had at work, and Eddie just avoiding telling her he's in the hospital until he hangs up the phone, and shamefully admits to Richie after he comes back in that he just plain doesn't know what to tell her. He's going to have to come up with something, though, he told her he'd only be gone for a week, tops, and it's already been three days-- and he's going to be in the hospital a lot longer than that. 

But if he tells her she's in the hospital, she'll fly right to Derry, and admittedly... the idea of seeing her right now isn't sitting well in his stomach. He gets a really terrible feeling when he thinks about Richie and Myra being in the same room, and he doesn't know why, he just knows he feels it in his guts. And by now, he's come to learn that if he feels something in his guts, it's usually instinctive and has something to do with a memory he doesn't quite have a grip on, just yet. 

Ultimately it's Mike who saves the day, because isn't it always? When Richie had proven less than helpful with coming up with a solution-- "Tell her you actually died," he'd deadpanned, and scoffed when no one had laughed-- it came up to the only other Loser who knew the woman. 

On another call that Richie excused himself for, Eddie and Mike sat on the phone and explained what had happened. There had been an accident during a stupid walk down memory lane. A sink hole opened up. His injuries were survivable and he's stable, but he can't be transported, and he definitely can't leave Derry. As a close, long-time best friend to the family, Mike promised to look after Eddie and keep Myra up to date on anything that she needed to be, as well as giving her the Doctor's information so she could call for herself and stay up on things. It would, after all, be negligent for her to leave her job during such a tentative time as this. They'll need the money. 

Richie wonders if he could pay for Eddie's hospital stay out of pocket. Probably, honestly. He wasn't that big of a deal but comedy loved him and so did his banking people, whoever and whatever they did. He usually had more money he knew what to do with. It felt unfair to mention that little tidbit, felt petty and mean and still not right. It wasn't the right way to confront their newfound memories-- Richie began to wonder if there was a right way. Hell, he began to wonder if Eddie even had anything to confront.

The memories have been trickling in, slowly but surely, the longer that Eddie actually has to relax and just bask in the comfort and companionship of his friends. It's easily the most enjoyable hospital stay of his life despite it also being the most dire, thanks to the extent of his injuries. Maybe that's just because for once he doesn't have his mother breathing down the back of his neck in ths hospital, making the experience so much more stressful than it had to be thanks to her constant crying and clucking and shouting at the medical staff for not taking good enough care of her sweet baby boy. 

Not for the first time, Eddie is guiltily glad his mother is dead. It was getting pretty exhausting, buying her the same number of Christmas presents as years he was alive, towards the end there. Coming up with 31 distinct separate gifts for one person that weren't any repeats of last year's gifts was fucking _hard_. 

They sit as a group and try to piece their fractured childhoods back together one fragment at a time. One of them will remember a detail and then trail off, but it'll trigger another piece of the same memory from another one, and they'll pick up the slack, which will snowball into another memory from someone else-- and it eventually ends in all of them laughing joyfully until Eddie expresses pain at the laughter, and they all awkwardly simmer down. 

On the fifth day, Eddie is officially moved from the ICU to a regular inpatient room, which the doctors assure his friends is a massive step in the right direction. While at first it seems intimidating to move him out of the area of the hospital where the nurses were most attentive to his need and vitals, truly it meant that he was headed the right direction on the road to recovery. He was doing amazingly well, taking to his medications and adjusting to his new life with only one and a half lungs extremely well. It would make his asthma worse, but he was never exactly an active guy to begin with, so it wouldn't get in the way of his lifestyle too much. 

The biggest fright has been the idea of seeing his own incisions and stitches. He knows it'll be a while before they take them out, and he probably won't even leave the hospital before then, but just thinking about what kind of scars he's going to have to live with makes him shudder. The one on his face is bad enough, but he can't even imagine what kind of scarring he's going to have in his chest and back, after this. Myra is going to have a fucking conniption fit. 

In a weird way, lives normalize. Into the second week of their extended stay in Derry, the police catch up to Richie and take him in for questioning about Bowers' death, which brings a whole new slew of drama into their lives. They're all interviewed, individually. There was no point arguing with officers when fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, directly next to the body, and Richie wasn't about to try.

"You guys didn't pick up the puke that was next to it, too, did you? 'Cause I'll save you the hassle and say that's mine, too." 

When the question arose over why they didn't go directly to the police after the incident, they had to calmly explain that they thought Bowers was following them, and they ended at the Neibolt house in an attempt to ambush and subdue him one final time. And if any officer raised the question of how they could possibly think Bowers was still alive after taking an axe to the head? Well, he'd taken a knife to the chest pretty lightly, and each and every one of the Loser's Club confirmed it.

The cops had a few questions about why they'd said they were out there partying the first time, and Mike was the first one to speak up and admit it was because they were just plain afraid to get in trouble, a story which they all corroborated. 

The drama only takes one day to solve, really, two if you count processing time for Richie's one-day incarceration being pushed through the system so the case could be marked Closed. Wasn't like they got anything new on him: the fingerprints he'd given as a kid sure as shit hadn't changed since.

Ben and Beverly are the ones that pick him up, thank god for them. It's jokes and smalltalk until both parties can relax a little bit, and Ben is properly on the road. Bev turns to hand Richie a small gift box. 

"Welcome back to the land of the free," Beverly says bravely. When Richie opens the box, he goes silent, eyes wide, mouth dropping agape. Smiling brightly at his reaction, she leans forward and squeezes his wrist, giving a long, significant look to Ben in that disgusting way they've been so prone to over the days. 

"Bev, seriously? This is--" Richie tries to thank her, even if it comes out wrong.

She rolls her eyes. Looking ahead, Ben rolls his eyes, too. Richie resists the urge to petulantly kick the seat in front of him. "I know. We're the best," Beverly says, turning back in her chair, "Hospital?" She asks, looking ahead.

"Yeah. Hospital," Richie agrees without thinking, looking down at the box in his hand. He's still thinking about it when he walks into Eddie's room without announcing himself, the small box tucked in his pocket, like it was some sort of dangerous, sacred object.

"How was life as a hardened criminal?" Eddie asks, sitting up in his bed. He's been doing that a lot more on his own lately, though he was too weak to support his own weight at first. He's been doing some bed bound exercises at the doctor's behest in order to build up his core strength again, and it's always a relief to see him sitting up without the bed fitted up against his back to support him. "Did anyone make you their bitch? You know you have to tell me if they did." 

He notices that Richie is acting a little weird, but he just chalks it up to the crazy last couple of days with the Derry police coming back to try and pin murder on them-- as if Bowers hadn't literally killed like six people on his way breaking out of the asylum he'd been living in for the last 30 years. And all Eddie could do was lie in bed like a fucking vegetable while his friends came up with a convincing enough lie to get the police off their backs. Truly, he imagines, the police must be _grateful_ to them on some level for killing Bowers, because it meant that none of them would have to deal with putting him back in some criminally insane nuthouse. 

It's hard not to notice Richie's odd mood, the way his head is ducked, the heavy weight of his hands in his pockets, so much more defeated than his usual jaunty trot. But he looked curled in on himself less out of depression, and more out of serious thought. He looked like he was goddamn chewing on something-- and with the way his brain was operating at 100 miles a minute trying to parse through everything he was thinking, he might as well have been physically exerting himself.

"You know, surprisingly? Derry County Jail's pretty bitch-free," Richie retorts, sounding a little distracted, but smiling up at Eddie all the same, still thinking hard. "Warden said the last time they had a bitch there was when you were there bailing me out, so--" he goes stiff, staring at Eddie and frowning. No. That was wrong. He couldn't say that because who knew if Eddie even remembered that? He was in jail because Mrs. Kaspbrak put him in there. Eddie had paid bail. It was right before--

Richie ducks his head again, swallowing around the knot suddenly clogging his throat, uncomfortably, "Ben and Beverly, they, uh-- they got me something," Richie says, changing the topic desperately, to anything but that. "Do-- uh. Would you want to see it?"

Eddie takes a second to respond, because Richie's words unlock a sort of fractured memory in his mind. He suddenly does remember bailing Richie out of jail, when they were... shit, eighteen? He doesn't remember what Richie was in jail _for_ , but he remembers that he had to give up half of the money he'd saved up that summer to do... something. 

His memories in regards to Richie, in particular, have been coming in strange waves. While he'll remember whole chunks of time he spent with Mike or Bill or Stan, his memories regarding Richie are fragmented in strange ways. He doesn't remember days they spent together, but just moments. Side by side complaining about the squish at the same gaming cabinet in the arcade-- lying on their backs in his back yard at night for some reason-- always buying two ice cream cones instead of just one because he had to give one to Richie. He remembers things in weird, rosy shades of color and feeling more than actual, concrete memories. 

It's like he's missing one big piece to the puzzle. Like his memories about Richie have slowly been filled in around the edges, and he has a whole frame, but whatever picture is in the middle is still just missing, making all of the memories scattered and confusing and filling him with conflicting feelings. 

Realizing he'd just gone silent for a solid 10 seconds, Eddie clears his throat and shakes his head to clear it. "What-- I mean, yeah, man, show me."

Stepping into his chair is a familiar action for Richie by this point, and the chair groans in the same way it always did as it adjusts to his weight. Richie's shoulders are still weirdly hunched like he's holding something uncomfortably heavy in his arms, but now its just the awkward position his hands in his pockets while sitting. His leg bounces against the ground. 

"First of all, you're like, you're feeling good, right? Nothing weird happened since I've been gone?" Richie asks, glancing around the hospital room and looking for any new machines, any new drips or IV's or xrays in the corner or charts stacked into the file on his bed. He doesn't find any, thank god. "It's probably, like, polite to ask that, or whatever, first. Like instead of how are you, you know, like? Are you closer to dying or can I talk about this trivial thing I got." Richie's talking a lot, a nervous habit.

"I'm fine, dude, what do you have?" Eddie says, both annoyed and touched by Richie's concern. He looks like he's absolutely fucking dying to show it to Eddie, whatever it is, fidgeting awkwardly and nervously in place. Eddie's almost compelled to just reach out and start patting him down in a second if Richie doesn't spill the beans.

"Cool." Bracing his arm against Eddie's bed, Richie scoots the uncomfortable chair parallel to Eddie's bed with a grinding screech.

For a moment, just a moment, Richie is teleported back in time. Teleported back to a rare weekend alone, unsupervised: Eddie watching the stars from his chair and telescope situated in his large window. Richie reaches across the room until he barely manages to grab the chair's handles. He pulls Eddie away, the chair screeches. They meet in the middle, one of Richie's arms braced against the chair, they-- 

Richie pulls out the box Beverly had gotten him, just a bit bigger than his palm. "They got me this to be assholes about the jail thing," he explains, opening it and setting it on the nightstand beside the bed. All that was left in his hand was a plastic, white, handheld device. "Do you remember this, man?" Richie asks. On instinct, his thumb flicks the power switch in the corner 'on'. The lights flash and beep, and lights overhead illuminate the screen, since backlighting wasn't a thing yet. 

Only when Richie swallows does he realize how dry his mouth is. "It's Street Fighter," He says, voice quiet like he's sharing a secret.

"Holy shit," Eddie whispers, the familiar 8-bit music filtering out of the tiny speakers on the handheld device. "Holy _shit_ dude. They found a cartridge of the original Street Fighter? You're gonna have to give them a fucking kidney in return. That's worth like a hundred bucks."

As if Richie couldn't pay them back a thousand fold. But that just goes to show how little Eddie really knows about Richie, at this point. What he knows about Richie could fill a thimble, but it doesn't matter to him if he doesn't know what Richie's been up to lately-- he remembers Street Fighter. He remembers it being important to them, and it would seem that the answer would be obvious-- it was important because they enjoyed playing it together. But that didn't feel quite right, Eddie feels in his guts like he hasn't actually played a lot of Street Fighter in his life. But nothing else quite makes sense. 

Richie takes a heavy breath, he can hear it in his own ears, practically ringing. No, no, that's not the reaction. It doesn't fucking matter how much it was worth, up until 20 minutes ago Richie didn't even remember the game even existing--

"Do you remember this game at all, man?" Richie asks, trying to keep his voice even as he begins to play his way through the first round. The little fighting guy bouncing and striking all choreographed and rhythmic. Richie barely looked like he was even watching the game he was playing. His eyes were mostly on Eddie, trying to look inconspicuous, but he kept glancing back at Eddie, to gauge his reaction. "We spent like, an entire Summer just--" he swallows around the dry wasteland of his tongue. Christ he could use a fucking drink. "--playing this game."

Eddie strains his brain to remember. He remembers Richie _saying_ he was going to spend the entire summer in the arcade, but that was the summer they fought Pennywise the first time, so he knows that's not the case. Was there another summer? Earlier, or later than that one? He truly can't remember. 

"I can barely see the screen, just-- hold on," Eddie scoots over on the hospital bed until his hip hits the far arm-bar, giving Richie plenty of room to sit down beside him. "Just sit up here, I wanna see."

He feels like a fucking kid. They were two fucking 40 year old men, what the fuck are they trying to fit on a hospital bed for? Richie could just stand and lean forward. _Eddie_ could just lean forward. They didn't have to do this-- but Richie finds himself double-checking for nurses out in the ward again before climbing up and into the bed.

Tugging his jacket off and throwing it at the chair, Richie leans down to Eddie's level-- because fuck the dude was small, was he always this fucking small???-- and begins to play again, thumbs moving expertly. He can smell Eddie's hair from here. It smelled good. Like him. Eddie had long since moved his shampoo into the hospital. There's a buzzing noise, a beeping. Game over.

Richie exhales through his teeth, clicking his tongue, "Hang on, I can play again," He mutters, stubbornly.

"You fucking suck at this dude," Eddie grins despite the little twinge of pain it puts in his cheek. Really, he stopped caring about the pain a long time ago, they'd long since taken the stitches out of the wound there, and he could never seem to stop smiling around Richie. 

Richie elbows him in the side for it and he shies away, complaining that he's too sensitive for manhandling just yet, thank you, _Trashmouth_ , but Richie just starts up a new game with the words of wisdom that if Eddie has the energy to insult him, he has the energy to take his beatings like a man. 

Eddie finds himself sagging into Richie's side, watching the screen as he plays. He really is out of practice, he probably hasn't played since they left Derry, But it's enjoyable just to watch him, even if he does keep biffing it, yet to win a single match even twenty minutes later. Eddie is content to just enjoy the closeness with the other man. 

It's probably not normal, to share a hospital bed with another grown ass adult man. If a nurse came by they'd probably scold them for it, but Eddie finds that he doesn't care. He likes the way his shoulder feels pressed up against Richie's, he's likes the tight squeeze. It reminds him of being a kid again, both of them crammed into the same twin sized bed trying to read the same comic book, complaining when one of them read too fast or too slow. 

He can smell Richie, the scent he wears and his laundry detergent, and the heavy layer of tobacco smoke over it all. The smell is comforting and familiar. He's overcome with the sudden urge to smell Richie's hair, which has definitely got to make him some kind of freak, but it feels like it would have been natural to just tuck his nose behind Richie's ear and _smell_ him. Like the other man wouldn't have even questioned it. 

Slowly, it comes back to him. He remembers playing street fighter with Richie on a handheld game, like this. They were sitting side by side just like this, too. Shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee while Richie played for him to watch. He remembers now, they were in Eddie's bedroom-- 

No. No they weren't. They were somewhere dark. Somewhere alone. Somewhere they weren't supposed to be. He remembers the thrill of being there. Were they at the school, did they break in at night? No, but breaking in-- that part feels right. They broke in somewhere and were sitting up against something cold. A filing cabinet... medicine cabinet... no, it was a gaming cabinet. The arcade-- they were in the _arcade_. They broke into the arcade in the middle of the night to play the games, but they weren't powered on, but Richie had packed a bag and hid it there before they got there, it had hard lemonade and Street Fighter, and a blanket in it, and Richie had laid out the blanket and they sat side by side, and Richie touched Eddie's thigh, and-- 

Eddie suddenly sits up very straight, bolt upright in the bed as the memories come flooding back. Richie brought him to the arcade that night to fool around, for the second time. The first time was by the lake, when Eddie had kissed Richie after drinking two beers, feeling bold and brave enough to kiss the boy he'd had feelings for his entire childhood. 

Holy shit. He had feelings for Richie. They were fifteen when he acted on them. Tears start rolling down his cheeks before he even realizes his eyes were welling up. They were still playing around when they were sixteen-- and seventeen, and eighteen-- they were going to run away together. His mom was the one who threw Richie in jail, and then she pretended to try and kill herself to keep Eddie from leaving Derry. 

He was _in love_ with Richie Tozier, and Richie was in love with him, too. He remembers when Richie said it for the first time, when Eddie snuck over to his house after his parents left him home alone for the weekend. He remembers the dog they were supposed to adopt together. He remembers _everything_ , and only then does he realize he's been _sobbing_. 

Richie can feel something happening beside him, and, selfish as it was, he didn't even think to try and stop it. He could feel the growing distress from Eddie whether because he just wasn't making it that hard to hear, or because they shared some sort of psychic, empathetic link. The truly good thing would be to stop playing his game, to acknowledge the obvious pain this walk down memory lane was putting him through, and to try the trigger the memory in a safe, loving environment with their friends.

Or some shit. That'd been what Bev and Ben and Mike and Bill had been talking shit about. Richie was all about utility, baby, and as far as he was concerned, not having a massive chunk of his memories? That wasn't something he wanted to go about peacefully. He'd been trying to claw back as many memories as he could have, as quickly as he could have them-- and this just wasn't one he could keep to himself.

There's a shaky breath behind him, the quivering sorrow not lost on him. Richie can feel it too, almost like they were going through whatever waterfall of memory Eddie was going under, together. But Richie doesn't stop playing. He doesn't even say anything, he just looks down at the brightly lit screen and the bouncing characters between bloodthirsty attacks, and keeps playing until Eddie takes a breath-- and that's when Richie hears the broken, wet noise leaving Eddie's throat and chest. That's when Richie nods, and swallows through the knot that had swollen in his own throat.

"I know," Richie says, and it sounds like it brings him a lot of pain to do so. What did you even do in this scenario? What was there to say? Maybe the others lost things, but together, Richie and Eddie had both lost an entire _person_. It wasn't about individual instances fading from memory like the natural flow of time would demand: Pennywise _took_ them from each other, until they didn't even have their name to keep them company. Richie couldn't've even told you Eddie's name before this week.

"I've been remembering things all weird, Eds." Now Richie is intentionally not looking at him, whether to give Eddie privacy or to avoid drawing attention to the heavy, wet tracks that had sluggishly begun falling down his own cheeks. "I've been remembering shit in chunks, but in the wrong order, you know? And I couldn't figure out I-- For the longest time, Eds, I just couldn't remember shit about you except--"

That Eddie made him warm inside. That he needed Eddie to survive. That somehow, their lives were inexplicably tied to one another. Ever since Richie had first caught sight of Eddie in that goddamn offensive-ass excuse for a Chinese Buffet, Richie couldn't help but know he needed to get Eddie out and get him safe, even if he couldn't remember a single fucking thing they used to do together. Even if, at the time, he couldn't remember the awful note they had separated on.

Richie remembers it now. A part of him is hoping Eddie might not, yet. Let them have Street Fighter again. Let them have a dark room and crowded quarters and this fucking game illuminating the dark cast of night for at least a day before new memories remind Eddie why he's in love with his wife, and why this all has to come crashing down. Because at least, for Richie, there had never been an 'after' Eddie. No one came after Eddie. There was only ever Eddie. There was _only ever_ Eddie.

He plays until the level completes, sitting in silence as Eddie falls apart beside him, the chipper 8-bit music bouncing in time with the characters on the brightly lit-screen, until the 'level won' theme chirps at them from the device, and Richie's thumbs go still, leaving the song to keep playing, on idle.

"What... now?" He asks, and hates that he actually sounds a little scared when he does so.

"We were... something," Eddie says, swallowing hard. "Something pretty serious, huh? We were gonna... adopt a dog. Cause your parents got rid of your beagle... that month I was trapped in Bibleventure... because I lied about self-harming myself... after my mom was told about the bruises on my thighs that you put there... because the doctor saw them... because I broke my nose and they had to put me under to put it back in place."

His words are slow as he pieces the memories together moment by moment, like he's making a cross stitch and the picture is slowly becoming clear to him. He sniffs and reaches up to wipe at his wet eyes. 

"Shit, we were _really_ serious, weren't we? Fuck. _Fuck_."

"You were supposed to come with me when I left," Richie mutters, turning to look at Eddie only now and wondering if that was perhaps the worst decision he could have made. So much had happened, they had gone through so much-- "You didn't because of Sonia." That isn't even mentioning-- it hurts too much to think about that last time, to think what Eddie had said. Richie wants to put it off, even for only a little bit longer.

The game falls to the lap made of their thighs pressed together in the bed. Richie can feel Eddie's leg under his elbow. What a weird, specific thought. Richie's had his mouth on that leg. Like pavlov's fucking dog, he can feel that leg in his teeth now. Richie has to pull his leg away and lean away just a little, to keep himself from turning into something extreme.

"How are you handling it?" He asks tightly, leaning back to look at Eddie before he went on. It was one thing to at least know you were gay-- was Eddie _just now_ realizing he was gay? At least Richie was allowed his fucking sexuality. Richie didn't want to go and talk about emotions if Eddie was having a hard time comprehending the sexuality spectrum. Richie gives Eddie a look like he might be a time bomb, those eyes flicking down to give him a once-over and immediately regretting the decision.

More tears spill down Eddie's cheeks as memories of their childhoods together flicker rapidly behind his eyes like a flip book, almost too quickly for him to make sense of any of it. He remembers and overwhelming sense of warmth with Richie-- warmth and love and the thrill of playing the game. The game of finding places for them to sneak out together and steal moments to wrap into one another like a pair of starving snakes. 

He remembers the long, lonely winters when it would be too cold for them to be together outside, and the heated reunions they would share once it finally got warm enough that they could sneak out again without catching hypothermia. It must have been some kind of fucking miracle that they were never caught sneaking out, every week for three years. 

And then he remembers how they parted. How Richie left him because he wouldn't leave Derry with his mom in the state she was in. And then he remembers desperately marrying Myra in a fit of inspiration, his one hope of getting out of Derry without his mom pulling some shit to keep him there. He remembers Richie coming back on the day of his engagement party-- the fucking party he never wanted, in the first place. 

"God. _Fuck_ , I remember everything," his breath hitches. "You-- you were supposed to wait outside-- at the party so I could-- find you when I had a moment--" his breath starts coming in sharp, involuntary gasps that ache in his chest and can't be good for his lung health. "I wanted Mike-- to keep you there-- so I could find you-- and apologize for-- what I had to say-- in front of everyone-- but you were just gone-- and I-- _never-- saw you-- again_ \--" 

He's full-on sobbing now, hunching in on himself, turtling up with his knees raising the blankets, covering his face with both hands. Thirty fucking years he'd felt so goddamn empty and he never understood why. He had a wife he didn't hate, they had an okay sex life, he had a good paying and steady job, he had a car in good condition, an apartment with reasonable rent in a good part of town-- there was no fucking reason for him to feel as unfulfilled as he has for the past three decades. There was so much fucking time wasted, and he couldn't even remember enough to realize he was wasting it. 

Whatever involuntary damn Richie had made between himself and Eddie breaks when those gut-deep sobs begin to wreck Eddie's small, hurt body. He's gulping air like he's been holding his breath for years, his noises are wet and unattractive. Pain radiates out of Eddie's body, and Richie isn't a fucking robot. He's not a fucking monster and this is the man that he's been in love with since he could understand the concept.

He turns, and there's nothing polite about the way Richie pushes Eddie open, in order to insert himself. He leans over to grab Eddie and drag him into his chest, an arm fitting around his waist like he was born to put it there and hefting Eddie into his lap. There's not even a minute of hesitation about if it would be 'too far'. Raising his knees and trapping Eddie in the tight seat of his lap, Richie buries his nose in Eddie's hair and squeezes him tight. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Eds," He whispers, knowing it might have been too bold to say such a thing. If everything Eddie was saying was true, he hadn't meant what he'd said at the party. He had something to explain. Richie's heart hammers in his chest as he takes deep, full gulps of Eddie's scent, holding him so tight he wondered if he should worry about hurting him. "I'm sorry I left," he whispers, voice breaking in Eddie's ear, "I thought you hated me."

"I _did_ hate you for leaving--" Eddie gasps, his chest quivering and aching. "But I could never have hated you for _coming back_ \--"

Looking back on it, he would always regret not just running away with Richie in that moment. How different would his life have been, if he'd run with him right then and there? Would he have ever become an insurance businessman? Would Richie have still become a comedian? Would they have gotten that dog? 

It's too late to rewrite the past, but Richie is here right now, and he just promised he's not going anywhere. They could finally start their lives together, even if it's thirty years behind schedule. They could finally be together, they could be-- 

"Shit," Eddie says out loud, right as he thinks it. "Myra."

"Are you kidding me?" Richie says, leaning back, "Fuck Myra," Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He looks down at Eddie's face, trying to see where he could have possibly been fucking going with that thought. There was no way Eddie loved her, no fucking way, not if he'd wanted to apologize to Richie about the party. Not if, this entire time, they had been 5 fucking minutes from a whole other life together. What did Myra even mean to Eddie? Did it mean that Richie was going to lose him to her again? Was he actually in love?

Richie stubbornly pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, frowning so hard his face hurts from the effort of it, "You don't seriously give a shit about her, right? She was just a meal ticket-- right?" There's the insecurity in Richie's tone, quivering and weak like a girl asking her crush if he thought she was pretty.

"She was at first, but-- she's my friend," Eddie says, laying his head on Richie's shoulder. It feels so natural to be wrapped up in his arms again, even if it's in the context of being in the hospital. It's easy to let all that fall away, so that only the pressure of Richie's arms around him exists anymore. "She's all I had for the last thirty years-- _especially_ after mom died. I just... sort of got used to her. We haven't exactly been happy... I don't think we were _ever_ happy, but we were stable. I can't just not go home. I can't just not talk to her about this, I have to-- at least look her in the eye, she's been the only constant in my life for three decades, man, she at least deserves the respect of being told in person why I'm leaving."

It's not even a question that he's leaving. He and Myra _haven't_ been happy. She worries about him constantly and it comes out in aggressive, unpleasant ways. She's controlling and demanding, but she's been a part of his life for so goddamn long that he's not even sure what an alternative lifestyle would even look like anymore. 

He hopes it'd be something like how it was with him and Richie, before everything went to shit. When they were playful and in love, when they would tease each other and rib one another, when they would spend hours just talking and laughing. God, if he could just have laughter in his life again. He'd laughed more in the last few days fighting a demon fucking clown with his friends than he has in the last 30 years with his own wife. 

There's a low, groaning growl that surprises even Richie when he utters it, curled around Eddie and making a noise that might have otherwise been better attributed to a fucking dog or something. Maybe Eddie saw it as a fair, just system, but Richie only saw the last time they tried to give the benefit of the doubt to any woman who had sunk her claws into Eddie Kaspbrak. For some reason, the women in his life didn't like letting go. Not that any of the women in Eddie's life were the ones currently wrapped around him like a security blanket. 

"You're a fucking glutton for punishment, Eddie," Richie mutters finally, voice tight. It wasn't his place to argue the case. It wasn't his place to tell Eddie how he handled his own divorce. Divorce was a whole other messy subject that he had to imagine wasn't going to go well, for the girl or for Eddie, who always seemed to take marriage so personally. "If you did it over the phone it'd save you both travel fees, you know. I probably have anything your little clean freak ass could want back home already."

Leaning back, Richie tries to smile a little tightly down at the man in his arms. He could trust Eddie in this. Whoever Myra was, she wasn't Sonia, and that meant a lot.

Eddie laughs softly, his face still wet as he rubs his cheek against Richie's shoulder. "I'm not going to do it over the phone," he mutters, overwhelmed by the idea that Richie just wants to bring him home, just like that. He supposes they'd already done the courtship part, even if it was years and years ago. He has no doubt he's every inch in love with Richie now as he was back then, even if the feelings are so sudden and fresh he could mistake them for first-time flutters. 

"Besides, I've got sentimental crap back home I'd want to bring with me if I'm making a big move," he says, as if there's any doubt he would make the move. "Medications, scripts, a few things I can't live without--"

As soon as he says it, the realization hits him, and he groans. "Shit... this isn't-- it can't happen any time really soon, Rich. I've got six months of physical therapy coming up, and if I get a divorce right in the middle of all of that, it'd turbofuck my insurance. I wouldn't even be able to pack, I'm not supposed to bend over or lift anything over 10 pounds for the next six months, at least, I can't make a big move in the middle of this-- god fucking _damn_ that shitty stupid ass clown--"

"Are you listening to yourself, dude?" Richie asks desperately, leaning away to fix Eddie with a serious, concerned look, eyebrows drawn heavily over his eyes in a furrow of confusion. "You sound like a chick making excuses about going back for CDs and shit, man. Six months?" It was cruel to let this hang for six months. They'd gone 27 years, some might argue, what was 6 months longer to wait? 6 months after everything they'd been through was nothing. 6 months for Richie usually was nothing. Entertainment industry moved fast.

Pulling away fully to press his back against the cool metal bedframe, Richie looks down his nose at Eddie. They don't make too big a deal about their height difference usually, but from down here Eddie was absolutely dwarfed by Richie. It surely didn't help that he was bundled up tight in Richie's arms like a stuffed animal. 

Richie's mouth is set in a grim line. "You know I'd rather suck my own dick than be the moral compass of the group," actually, that didn't even sound bad, in general. Richie would love to suck his own dick. "But it's fucked up to lead Myra on. It's one thing when a fucked-up clown monster from fucking space has taken your fucking memory, but doing it now for the insurance is just gold digging, dude."

Eddie's chest goes uncomfortably cold with the way Richie looks at him, and his face screws up with grief. "Man, fuck you, it's not gold digging, it's _my_ insurance that _I_ pay for. Have you _read_ my fucking file? Because I have. They took half of one of my _lungs_ , I'm never gonna get that back-- and they had to fucking staple most of the muscles in my back together. I'll be lucky if I'm not permanently unable to lift more than 20 pounds for the rest of my fucking life, is that what you want? Because if I don't do physical therapy, that's what's gonna fucking happen."

He suddenly doesn't want to be all bundled up at all anymore, it's not comforting being smaller than Richie when the other man uses it against him like this, and he turns away to swing his legs out of Richie's lap and stands up off the bed, his chest aching both from the exertion of his exhausting sobs and the emotions burning in it. 

"I'm fucking _scared_ , man. My file said a lot of shit-- chronic pain, lifestyle changes, chance of reinjury-- I'm not gonna just fucking go back to normal after this, I'm gonna have to live with this fucking thing for the rest of my life," he continues, gesturing angrily at his chest. " _You're_ the one who hauled me out of that sewer knowing what that fucking clown did to me and that I'd have to live with it forever, so a little bit of fucking understanding would be great. I'm sorry I can't heal in a time frame that's more convenient for you, but I'm _scared_ \--" his voice cracks and he looks away from Richie, grimacing and shaking.

"Hey, hey, hey," Richie says quickly, holding his hands up as he turns in the bed to swing his legs off of the side. He didn't like the way Eddie was moving, unsteady and chaotic like he could really hurt himself in the middle of experiencing... all of this. It's easier than focusing on the content of his words, the bark that practically admitted that Eddie would rather be _dead_ than live with all of this. He really doesn't have the luxury of second guessing himself at this point. It already happened. Eddie was still here. He still would have to live.

Slowly, Richie takes a step closer to Eddie, hands still raised in front of him like he was trying to soothe a scared deer, "That's not what I meant, okay? I wasn't trying to act like a dick about that, I wasn't. It was just a stupid fucking joke, alright? You're obviously not a fucking gold digger," He reaches out to him, a hand going to Eddie's shoulder, squeezing as he tries to coax the maligned man back into his bed, not letting go even after initial, petulant attempts to shake him off.

Gentle but unyielding, Richie's hand on Eddie's shoulder stays firm as he leads him back into bed. This time, he keeps ample space between them, enough to assure that he means nothing uncouth or untoward, "What I was _trying_ to say, Eddie-- what I was trying to fucking get at this entire time, was that it won't matter, okay?" He tries to meet Eddie's gaze, but it's turned away from him, fear and nerves and stubborn anger still creasing little lines across his forehead.

Richie puts his other hand on Eddie's shoulder, heavy, squeezing, just to make him look up, "I wanna take care of you, Eds. You don't need insurance, I have more money than I can do shit with."

"It's not just about the money, man," Eddie shakes his head, his chest going tight. "My insurance getting all shook up in the middle of a massive recovery would fuck up my records. That wouldn't be such a big deal if I had a fucking broken leg or whatever, but this-- this is huge. This is-- this is life-changing shit I've got to power through, and if my records get all fucked up right out the gate because my doctor falls out of my plan or my insurance juggles my forms wrong because they're trying to figure out how to separate my plan from Myra's, that could totally screw me for the rest of my life."

He looks back up at Richie, his eyes serious and heartbreakingly scared, his brows furrowed low. "It doesn't matter if you think it's just fucking excuses to pick up CD's, I've got shit that matters to me back home. I've got photo albums, and my wedding ring belonged to Myra's dad, I can't just fucking take off with that, I've gotta give it back. And I've got this-- really fucking old cassette tape that I've always had with me, it's my good luck charm. I probably should have brought it here with me, that tape got me the job I've had for eight years, I might not've gotten _stabbed_ if I fucking had it with me."

He sighs, and runs his hands through his hair. "Look, I get that you're freaked cause last time I said I needed to tell someone you didn't like that I was planning to leave, it went fucking crazy, but Myra isn't my mom, and I'm not eighteen years old anymore. I'm not three thousand dollars away from going bankrupt, and I'm not scared of the world anymore. You gotta fucking trust me, dude."

It was hard for Richie. _This_ was hard, for Richie. Trusting Eddie was hard. Trusting _himself_ was hard. Barely two weeks had gone by since they'd left the fucking cave under the Neibolt House. Barely two weeks had passed since Richie had been forced to deal with the torrent of memories as they hit him, one after another, messy and uncoordinated. For the first time in a long time, sitting in the bed with Eddie wrapped in him arms, he'd felt whole. And now, one wrong sentence-- or maybe two, maybe four, maybe 10-- had deprived him of that joy, and he felt hollow. Desperate. 

Guilt makes Richie's stomach twist unpleasantly as Eddie chastises him. Stupid Richie, not knowing about _insurance technicalities_. Stupid Richie for not knowing about Eddie's photo albums and his wedding ring and his cassette tape-- and weird, how that last one makes his body warm and his head confused. He sinks a little like he was hit, ducking his head as his shoulders hunch, eyebrows furrowing. There was too much for him to think, too much for him to want. Wanting all of this at once was too much but god, did he.

How was he just supposed to trust Eddie? Not that anything Eddie had done made him a liar-- not really-- but history would show that Eddie wasn't the strongest when it came to hurting people. And divorcing Myra, a woman grazing 50 and no doubt hating every fucking minute of it, was going to hurt. Maybe she wasn't Sonia Kaspbrak, but she'd been _Myra Kaspbrak_ for thirty years, and he doubted she'd want to let it go. 

And maybe Eddie didn't actually want to go with Richie, and was just pretending to because the big idiot had been playing nurse for the past 14 fucking days and that hurt, too.

"Okay, Eddie," He says finally, jaw tense, "Do whatever you gotta do. Take care of it. Her, whatever. I get it. I'm sorry I asked," Richie frowns, more at himself and his stupid fucking emotions than anything else, "I'll back off. You know more about your shit than I ever will, I just tell jokes on stage for cash," he admits, with a sarcastic smile. Glancing up at Eddie, he holds up his hands, out of their pockets, "Really. You win."

Eddie doesn't like the way Richie looks right now, he doesn't like the fact that he looks all small and defeated, as if Eddie is sentencing him to die rather than just extending the finish line of... this. But he's spent his entire life caving in to other people's whims, and this is one thing he's got to put his foot down and do on his own terms. 

"I'm not going to just drop off the face of the earth," he promises. "Now that I-- now that _we_ \-- I'm going to text you like 200 times a day, dude, so get ready for that." 

He wants to reach out and touch Richie again, but it feels wrong to, now that he's made him look so sad and hunched. His hands tighten on the bed sheets instead, seated on the edge of the bed with his feet dangling. Stupid tall hospital bed. He extends his pinkie out to the side to just brush the side of Richie's with it, without looking at him. 

"Six months," he says. "Six months and then I'll be sorted. After that, any additional physical therapy is voluntary, so if I need more I'd be switching doctors anyway. It'll be a nice, clean break. I'll need the time to turn in a change of address, give my notice at work-- there's a lot of shit that goes into running away from a life thirty years in the making. It's not the same as running away when you're a dumbass 18 year old scared of everything."

Glancing back up at Richie finally, he bravely links his pinkie with the other man. He wishes he could say that he would do it all over again to get them here... but honestly if he had a chance to go back, he would have left his mother in that hospital bed, uncertainty in the future be damned, and he would have run away with the man sitting across from him now. The thought of how much time they wasted, how much time they could have had, burns like a hot coal in his chest.

"I don't wanna wait six months, Eds," Richie admits before he realizes he's putting voice to his thoughts, and immediately he looks guilty, looking down again with a pained wince across his lips. "Sorry. Not trying to be a dick. Didn't mean to say that out loud."

How long had it been since Richie had said something without thinking? He felt like he'd spent the last 30 years exclusively in his head. Telling jokes that weren't his, hand on hip at red carpets with women he barely cared about as co-stars, going to shady bars after midnight and trawling for dates like a faggot in small town Missouri-- Richie hadn't gotten to enjoy the bliss that came with stupid, thoughtless speech for so long...

And going back to that secrecy, to that pain, to that life of isolation, even for 'only' six months, felt like the worst pain imaginable. It felt like someone shoving an ice pick into and through his belly button. It felt like he was being forced to watch and endure the worst moment of his life, again, if only he could hold on for six more months. If this trip to Derry had taught Richie anything at all, it was that time didn't move like that. It wasn't easy. It wasn't guaranteed. They'd wasted 27 years of their life that should have been spent together. 

After a second, Richie actually seems to reconsider his words. "Actually, fuck that," Richie looks up, frowning. He doesn't look at Eddie when it says it, but little victories are still victories, and Richie holding his head up right now was a fucking triumph. "I don't want to wait six months, Eds," Richie says again, and this time it's with his chest. He turns to look Eddie in the eye, his own overbright, shining with desperation, maybe a few unshed tears, "I've been in love with you since I was 12, Eddie. It's-- fucking _mean_ to ask me to wait six months," Said without fire, the words just come out resigned. They come out sad.

Eddie pulls away again, intimidated by the intensity after so many years of being in a marriage devoid entirely of passion or tension. He holds that gaze for only a moment, before dropping his eyes to the floor, his heart pounding in his chest. 

He feels like he's being given a second chance to make the same mistake he made the first time. Not running away with Richie when he had the chance. On the surface it seems like exactly the same situation-- Richie's here, asking him to throw caution to the wind, telling him to throw his hands up and say fuck it and just take whatever may come down the line. 

But deeper than that, Eddie knows it's not the same. Running into the unknown as a (relatively) healthy but scared 18 year old with no assets or ties to "the real world" who is free to make mistakes and fuck around with credit card debt and carve out their space in the world, is _very different_ from being a well-established 40-year-old business man with bank accounts and insurance and leases and a career. Running away from all of that without warning would be not only negligent, but practically criminal, in some cases. 

"Then I guess I'm mean," he says finally. "I know you don't care about all the technical details, you just wanna jump in with both feet, but-- honestly, I'd like for it to go smoothly if we-- when we finally get to _be_ , you know? I don't want to have to be scrambling to close accounts and ignore phone calls and change my address and all that tedious shit, I want to do it all before I get there so that when I do I can just... be fucking happy, for once. I don't think I've been happy since before you left Derry the first time."

Nodding wasn't a conscious choice, but Richie is doing it before Eddie even finishes speaking. He gets it. Really. He actually does, that was the worst thing about it all. Of course it's responsible to wait six months. Of course it's the adult thing to do. Adults don't avoid their responsibilities like this. Adults don't run away from their problems and just hope it figures itself out.

They get out ahead of it. They stay with their wife for six fucking months while secretly texting their high school boyfriend about their plans to divorce her and run away together. 

"I get it, Eddie, that's what I'm saying," He says, voice gentle as he looks down at their hands, closing the distance between them to link his pinkie with Eddie's again. He squeezes his finger back, so small even next to his own. Richie sucks in a breath, then links their joined fingers and presses a kiss to their knuckles, closing his eyes and savoring it. He wants nothing more than to close the distance between them, to pull Eddie back into his lap and-- 

Richie doesn't, though. He pulls away after a long, tense moment, smiling sadly down at Eddie-- and it is a sad smile, but it's not devastated anymore, "You gotta do what you gotta do, it's cool. Whatever way you wanna come, you should. But I wanted you to know you were mean for doing it." 

There's a forced levity to his voice when he leans in, but it's better than being fucking sad. "And when I finally can get my hands on you, you're gonna feel every fuckin' month, Kaspbrak." There's no world where Richie could condone this. There's no world where Eddie changed his mind. And, well. Richie loved Eddie. All he could do was support him, whatever fucking happened. "Deal?" Richie asks, only a little breathless.

"Deal," Eddie says, equally knocked breathless by the promise, years of memories of their heated trysts in the woods hitting him in the stomach. Now isn't the time, not in the fucking hospital. "I'll keep you informed every step of the way, I promise."

And he will, he knows he will. This time he's going to have Richie's fucking phone number, he's not going to _forget_ again. He'd call him every goddamn hour if that's what it took, but he doubts that it will. Ben kept that yearbook page his entire life and never forgot Beverly in 30 years, Eddie knows that he can withstand six months of whatever bullshit magic made him forget the first time while actively talking to Richie every day-- if it would even happen a second time. That might have died right alongside Pennywise. 

Either way, the first step is to get out of this fucking hospital, and then step two is to just... live the rest of his life. What a scary, wonderful thing. 


	11. Chapter 11

Eddie was true to his word, in all matters. When he was finally released from the hospital, Mike elected to drive him back to his home, since he had to ditch his car anyway thanks to the massive t-bone accident he'd gotten into just to get Eddie to the hospital on time, and Eddie really wasn't in any condition to sit with his arms elevated on a steering wheel for hours. They talked the whole way there about what Mike had been getting up to and what his plans for the future were, whether he would finally move to Florida like he always wanted, but Eddie dodged any questions about himself. 

Not because he was having second thoughts, but because there was a stupid part of him that was afraid he would jinx it, or that Mike would say something that would make him doubt himself. No, his plan was for him only. 

Well, him and Myra. He wasted no time with her, he let her have the rest of the day when he finally returned home to fuss and cluck and whine and scold, but he wouldn't lead her on longer than that. He couldn't live the next six months just playing pretend-- and for all he knew, that would only assist in the forgetting, if it were going to happen again. He had to be up front with her, as unpleasant as it would make the next six months. He could suffer six unpleasant months in order to enjoy the rest of his life with Richie. 

_I told her,_ he texted Richie when the deed was done. _She took it surprisingly well._

Startling even him, she didn't cry when he told her he wanted to get a divorce. She said she'd seen it coming for a while, and that she had a feeling in her chest that once he left for Derry, he'd never be coming home. He doesn't tell her how close that came to being true in a very literal sense, and instead apologized for fulfilling the prophecy in a more abstract way. She was surprisingly mature about the matter, and only got a little weepy when they started discussing how they were going to divide assets, and he gave her back her father's wedding ring. 

He didn't tell her all the details of why he wanted a divorce, and she didn't ask. He figured it was better than way, better not to tell her that he was running away with the man who crashed their engagement party thirty years ago. This was already going to be complicated enough, she didn't need him grinding it in like that. 

Back in the world of the living, Richie was important again, and worse still, he was the celebrity that had disappeared off the face of the planet for almost 2 weeks, only to resurface in a small town's police registry-- which meant that his time was filled and his chances to look at his phone were slim, but he was glad he caught this one.

An immediate wave of relief washes over him as he ignores the jostling, hissed jeering from his manager to get him on the wings for his cue to duck down into his phone. _Proud of you, dude. What's the plan? Living together until you're done? She was cool?_ Someone is pulling on Richie's shoulder, and he yanks his arm away with a snapped, "Get the fuck away from me, I'm fucking talking to someone I'll be there in a sec."

 _She was cool,_ replies Eddie. _I was gonna move into my office to sleep on the day bed but she insisted she would since I "need the back support" as if memory foam provides any fucking support._

Richie ignores the sneers from his people as he hunches over his phone like a teenager. _Gotta be on, check Ellen at 7 if you wanna hear people ask about me killing a dude and looking super sexy while I did it._ Richie says, smiling into his phone, _Seriously. Proud of you. Can you talk over dinner?_

 _Yeah. Don't tell them about me or I'll kill you,_ Eddie replies, definitely not ready to be questioned by the public sphere yet, not when he still needs to sit down every five minutes because he gets winded. 

He realizes he won't be able to avoid it forever, though. Richie is some kind of public figure now, a comedian or an actor or something, Eddie still hasn't really had the time to look into exactly what it is he does. It's intimidating, thinking about dating a famous person. He wouldn't be able to be secret-- and honestly, would there be any reason to? It's not like gay relationships aren't way more mainstream now than they were in the 90s when they were first together, and he doesn't even have his mother to be afraid of anymore. 

It'd really be up to Richie if he wanted to just be out like that, but Eddie thinks that if it came down to it, he'd rather just be out than try to jump through all the exhausting hoops they used to when they were children. They're not kids anymore, bound by the rules of their parents, they make all their own rules now, they don't have to hide if they don't want to. And hiding the nature of their relationship while living together and adopting a dog would be pretty flimsy anyway. 

The fact that their relationship would be a matter of public discussion is still scary, and so _different_ from what they had as kids. It's not that he doesn't want to, his heart is still with Richie, and every day he seems to uncover more new memories about things they did together, time they spent together, the little ways they would love one another that make his chest ache and have him opening his phone to look at the picture he and Richie had taken together on the day Eddie was discharged from the hospital, just to make _sure_ he wouldn't forget him. 

Over dinner, Eddie informs Richie that Myra had offered to move out, but that Eddie insisted she keep the apartment. All of her friends are in their city and her job, and she'd decorated the place more to her specifications anyway. He didn't detail to her where he was headed, and she didn't ask, but he did take out a chunk of money from one of his accounts to pay their rent forward by an entire year for her, just to thank her for being so cool about the split. 

Two days later, Eddie found out that Myra had been balancing an affair off to the side with a different man for the past six years, and Eddie feels... complicated about it. 

"It's not like I'm _upset?"_ he tells Richie over the phone as he does his morning stretches, the phone set up on speaker on the table in his office, Myra long since left for work. "It's just... _weird_. If she was looking for love in other places six years ago, why didn't she say something then, you know? We could have gotten all of this over with a long time ago."

Richie, however, was taking his morning piss. For Eddie it might have been 9am, but for Richie in Los Angeles it was a crisp 6am, and Eddie had woken him up with his call, but he would gladly be woken up a thousand times in a single night to answer every call from Eddie. "Y'know what'd be fuckin' funnny?" His voice is still rough and quiet from sleep, the phone tucked into the warm crook of his shoulder as he stifles his yawn to prevent groaning directly into Eddie's ear as he finishes up and tucks himself back into his pants. He'd flush later, didn't want to alert Eddie and get scolded.

"What if she didn't tell you because she thought you were too dependent on her? Like she fucking--" Richie rubs his face. It's so absurd it could be true, and he's laughing about it. "She figured she mothered you so much that... you wouldn't be able to move on from _her_." He pulls his robe higher over his shoulders, bare chested as he faces the large, open window overlooking downtown LA. The sky was turning a purple-blue, still mostly obscured by pitch black.

Crossing the threshold to his patio, Richie lights up a cigarette, the telltale sparking of his lighter, then sizzling burn of paper and tobacco audible even through the phone. "How fuckin' ironic would that be? You guys just stuck in a catch-fuckin'-22 for three goddamn decades," He takes a long pull from his cigarette, breathing smoke out through his nose before he looks down at his phone, curiously.

Simultaneously picking up his phone and leaning over the railing, Richie leans over and breathes in the crisp, cool California morning, enjoying the semi-dark while they still had it, "So what're you wearing?" he asks, grinning.

Eddie huffs, but the sound is carried by laughter. "Fucking shut up, dude," he says, groaning slightly as he carefully lifts his hands up over his head. He's supposed to be taking his stretches very easy, not pushing himself too hard, only to the point of pain and no further, but he's gotten to the point where he can lift his arms into a surrender position, even if he can't get them straight up over his head yet. 

He glances down at himself though, and decides to throw Richie a _little_ bone. "I'm doing my stretches. So you know-- excercise shorts, and nothing else. I gotta watch myself in the mirror to make sure nothing looks weird."

Even though he really hates looking at the scar in the middle of his chest. He gets the feeling that Richie's going to hate it, too. Possibly even more than he does, which would really be saying something. 

A hum of appreciation rumbles from Richie's chest. "You know, if you really wanted to go full midlife crisis, you'd take a picture and send it to me," Richie says, still smiling as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. It was sad. The sky was getting more blue to it, more brilliant yellow and red cutting through the darkness. The sun would be up any minute, now. Rush hour had started 2 hours ago."If you want an excuse you can say you wanted my opinion on your positioning." 

It almost feels wrong to speak like this, after so long without and with Myra still very much in the picture--but he supposed she... wasn't, not really. Which meant there was technically nothing wrong with what they were doing. God, he wondes how many Christians he's going to piss off once they find out. He hopes its a lot. They already _really_ don't like him.

"Shut up," Eddie says again, though he is tempted. There's a part of it that feels wrong-- he doesn't want to go down that path until he's officially a free man, until the divorce goes through and he doesn't have to deal with any catholic guilt making him question himself and the sort of man he is. But god, it is tempting. "I have to go take a shower. Brush your teeth, I bet you haven't yet."

Maybe part of it really is just stalling. He has no idea what a life with Richie is going to be like, anymore. Don't famous peoples nudes get leaked all the time? Would he be in danger of that just from dating a famous persona? He had an idea of what their lives would be like back when they were kids, he had a vision for their future. They both had clean slates, they had nothing to do moving forward but figure themselves out-- but now, as adults, there's so much groundwork already laid out. 

What was Richie's home even like? Was it safe? was it _filthy?_ Did he tidy up after himself? Did he have a maid? Did he slack on his hygiene with no one around to remind him to clean up? Would he find Eddie naggy after living so long on his own without anyone to remind him to brush his teeth or wash his hair? 

Eddie is filled with questions, none of them big enough to make him second guess himself-- especially since he'd already made the moves in the right direction, closing out bank accounts and quitting his job (with a generous gift from his boss, being allowed to keep the company car he'd driven for years, which was nicer than his own car) his days have really just been filled with two things-- exercise, and worrying. 

But as the weeks stretch on, he can feel himself getting stronger. He's able to lift his arms higher over his head inch by inch, and he can bend over and even lift up to thirty pounds without pain. The stitches came out a while ago, and left behind pink marks stretching over his skin like centipedes, the stitches themselves ironically leaving behind even more little scars of their own. He thinks they're ugly, and he thinks Richie will find them ugly too, but only because of where they came from and how he got them. What they serve as a reminder of. 

On the other side of the country, Richie packs as much into the six months of Eddie's physical therapy as possible, for himself. The reason was twofold. One, he wanted to be around when Eddie first moved in to show him the city, to help him get established-- if there was paperwork for Eddie to separate from Myra, there would surely be paperwork on the back end, paperwork he wouldn't've taken into account, personally, but he knows Eddie did. He'd never liked to leave paperwork on the table. And two, Richie wanted to be able to relax in some sort of peace.

He would have to confront what had happened in Derry to the public at some point. Celebrities going missing, no matter how B-list or unimportant, was still a big deal, and while Richie wasn't some sort of Hollywood starlet-- usually 3rd pick for Protagonist's Best Friend in the casting room-- he was still someone people knew. There were press junkets, talk shows, early morning appearances around LA he had to make just so people could see him and ask him how he was doing being alive.... that sort of thing.

And, inevitably, when the question came up about the murder charge he was cleared on, Richie resolutely spoke to the horrible treatment of mental health in their country, and how he wasn't proud of what he did. No one had to know that he'd come up behind the dude with an antique axe in a library. There was a struggle. Another man ended up dead, Richie ended up alive. 

Ironically, it was the most attention he'd had in a while. A couple smaller studios had even asked him to come in and read. For _action movies._

"I told them I wasn't interested, duh," Richie explains to the phone set on speaker on his kitchen island, circling to the other side of it to begin moving dishes from his dishwasher to his cabinets, "Sorry for the noise, my place is a fucking sty right now--"

He was home in New York finally, his massive slew of travelling basically all but ending after the fourth month-- people lost interest after some time, and once the details of the case had been explained and Derry had come under some surprisingly generous donations from the nation to help their mental hospital, society felt good enough about itself that they allowed themselves to move on.

The next scandal came when Ariana Grande left the house without her signature high ponytail, and the world was "shook" by how she looked with her hair down. Honestly, yeah. Fair. Hollywood fucking sucked. 

"Can you imagine me as a fucking action hero? I tried to sell myself to Ready Player One but I guess they're set with Adam fucking Sandler or some shit, bullshit mainstream comedy," Richie leans against his counter, looking down at the phone that he could almost imagine Eddie's face on, instead of the black case, "You about ready to get your happy little ass up here? Want me to come down and help you move?"

"Nah, it's really not all that much," Eddie explains, sitting on the balcony of his apartment with a glass of wine, just looking out at the view. The only thing he's going to miss about this city is the view. He doesn't remember exactly why he'd chosen to land in Chicago so many years ago, but he knows he likes it here, and he'll be sadder to say goodbye to the city than anything else. "Myra's keeping all the furniture, the dishes and shit. All I'm bringing is my clothes and a few keepsakes, it'll all fit in my car easy. I even bought a shitty little casette player so I can actually _listen_ to my lucky tape on my drive down, the one I've been carrying around since-- fucking forever, I dunno. I don't think I've ever actually even listened to it. I don't even remember where I got it."

He crosses his legs, holding the phone up to his ear with a soft sigh as he watches the sky turn purple. "For the record, I think it'd be kickass if you did an action movie. You gotta diversify your portfolio, maybe before long you'll even get cast in a drama or something. I bet you'd love crying on camera."

Richie laughs brightly. Through the phone, it sounds like it echoes throughout the apartment, like he's living in an empty flat that still somehow, according to him, manages to be a 'sty'. Picking up his phone, Richie crosses to his own balcony, the door closed, just looking out at the cityline beneath him, "Be honest, have you watched any of my stuff?" He asks curiously, "Holy fuck, did you and Myra ever go to one of my movies as a date? Did that feel weird?" 

"I've checked out some of your stuff. Kinda too surreal for me to watch too much at once," Eddie admits. "But you're great on SNL."

Getting away from himself in his excitement, it doesn't occur to Richie that maybe it was a bad idea to ask such a personal question. It directly confronts their whole predicament in a way he wasn't sure if Eddie was ready for. In fact, Eddie had been keeping his side of the preparations pretty tightly locked-up in that head of his, any offer for Richie to send lawyers or cash or movers or anything being met with a quick refusal, then a topic change.

"That, uh-- cassette tape. You say you've had it for a while. You haven't listened to it?" Richie asks, deciding to lead the charge on the topic change, before Eddie can divert any more. "It makes me feel weird when you talk about it, but I don't know why. Think it could be a.... thing?" Richie asks, the sound of him opening his door immediately punctuating his sentence. The sounds of New York engulf him, sirens and honking and the sound of cars passing on the busy streets below.

"A thing?" Eddie repeats, frowning, and he sips his wine. "Oh. You mean like-- that kind of thing. I don't know. I've never listened to it, not since I can remember... it's not like casette tape players are a hot ticket item anymore. I just always knew it felt too important to throw away so-- shit, maybe it is, I don't know. It's not labeled or anything, it's just a plain red tape. I guess if it is I'll let you know?"

He bounces his foot anxiously, where it's crossed over the other knee, and reaches up to rub at the scar in the middle of his chest, a nervous habit he's taken up whenever he thinks about the past, whenever old memories come up to surprise or to haunt him. They feel inexorably linked, his memories and his scars. 

"Does it make you feel bad weird or good weird?" he asks softly. 

"Good weird! Good weird." Richie says quickly, standing upright a little quickly and wincing at how stupid he must have looked. The cigarette now lit between his fingers begins to ash without him even taking a drag, the phone held to his ear much more important to him than the cigarette. Funny, considering he'd spent the last 30 years chainsmoking enough to try and copyright the band's IP.

Glancing down, he flicks the burning log of ash away with an annoyed squint. "I really want you to listen to it, actually. Not sure if that's just because I'm curious, or you. If you don't want to listen to it, I can when you get here." Only now does Richie bring the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag to buy himself some time, "I'd let you know if shit got weird. Don't want you to have to go through all that... memory shit alone." Beverly and Ben had made it very clear that they all needed to lean on each other while they got through the repercussions of this.

Richie had suggested they all chip in and get a vacation home on an island for a month or two or three to detox from all this. Wasn't like they didn't have the funds between all of them, they were all pretty fucking successful in their own right-- but they'd said no. Responsible adulting to get back to, apparently.

"No. No, I'll listen to it," Eddie says. "On the drive over, I'll-- pull over if it gets crazy, but I'm sure it'll be fine."

He's quiet for a moment then, just enjoying sharing the space with Richie, even if they're just burning minutes in total silence, and sips his wine again, deep in thought. The last few months have been hectic, processing the divorce out of court since he and Myra were able to come to such a civil arrangement about it, it was really just a matter of waiting until Eddie had enough physical therapy under his belt that they could officially put it through and deal with the rest of the backend shit, dividing their assets legally according to their agreements, writing contracts, all that boring shit that he knows Richie would have groaned his way through, if he'd waited to do it all once he got to New York. 

"Listen, Richie," he murmurs into the phone. "I wanted to thank you for being patient for the last four months. I know it's not ideal, but being able to wrap everything up in Chicago on my own schedule, not feeling rushed or anything-- it's really made this whole process painless. Being able to actually focus on healing and getting stronger without stress has done a world of fuckin' difference. So... thank you."

"Hey, when you're right, you're right," Richie says, leaning over his railing and looking at the sidewalk below. He takes another heavy draw from his cigarette, stubbing it out in his ash tray. For a second, he considered grabbing another one, but he refrains at the last minute, an odd moment of self awareness making him draw short. Maybe he just didn't need it. 

He thinks about the last four months, the whirlwind that had overtaken his life. He thinks about everything he'd had to do, just to keep his life running smoothly in the midst of the Derry fallout. "You probably would've hated it here. With all the crap you had to do, and with how much my managers and shit have been showing me around, it's not like we even would have seen each other." He sounds sad when he says it. Probably because he is sad. "Best case, I could say you'd've had the entire apartment to yourself, and our Postmates is fucking killer in this neighborhood. I got a kid who always takes my order no matter what time it's at. I swear he has a fuckin' delivery notification. I think his name's Brian? Nice kid."

He stretches, groaning low in his throat as he leans away from the railing to tip his back and head back, feeling aches all along his back. Thanks, age. "I'd say I'd need a fucking vacation, but we both now how the last one went. I don't think I could slip away without a nanny for the next three years."

Eddie laughs softly. "I don't think a vacation is what you need as much as just-- a return to normal, you know? Going through all this legal shit with Myra hasn't been fun, but even though it's been a divorce, going through legal shit feels normal for me-- working in insurance for as long as I have, legal shit is my bread and butter. Maybe you should just figure out how to do something familiar again until I get there, to pass the time?"

"What's normal? A fucking stage tour? Netflix would sponsor something, I've already had about 10 indie fucking directors wanting to write a movie about what happened," Richie sounds sour at the prospect. It didn't really matter how much of a percentage they wanted to cut him, making a movie about a shitty time in his life was just-- shitty. Maybe he was still too close to it. His agents certainly told him he was being irrational for turning them all down. "I don't wanna deal with that many people, Eds. When they look at you live it's-- different, man, I can't explain it."

"It doesn't have to be Netflix," Eddie says. "What about your roots, dude? You had to start somewhere, right? You could do like a nostalgia tour. Hit up spots you used to go to when you were first starting out? It doesn't have to be anything huge, or planned out, just-- something to keep your mind off of things for the next two months, until I get there. Once I'm there, we'll be pretty busy. I'll have to set up new insurance, and lease crap, get a new doctor in my network, change my address and liscence plates-- there'll be plenty to do, but until then you've gotta do _something_ so you're not climbing the walls."

"My _roots_ are driving from shitty small town to shitty small town in my fucking shit-ass Honda Accord." For a second he thinks about asking Eddie if he remembers it, because he feels like Eddie should-- but then memory of that night hits him again. Eddie hadn't even gotten to see his first car. He hadn't even made it outside with him. An uncomfortable silence stretches between them, making Richie duck his head. It's nice, now, to have the city as back up. Too much quiet would have been impossible to handle. 

"Maybe it's not a bad idea," Richie says finally, after what feels like way too long, "I miss being in the country a little, when its not trying to fucking kill me. City's nice, but it's lonely once you realize you got friends out there you could be talking shit with." Or a should-be-boyfriend you should be fucking the shit out of, Richie thinks, but he doesn't say that part.

"Something unofficial," Eddie suggests. "So you can make your own hours. If you keep yourself busy, the next two months will fly by."

Richie can hear the door open behind Eddie, and the sound of Myra's voice call softly, "Eddie. It's Daniel." 

"Be there in a sec," Eddie responds, and the balcony door shuts again. "That's Myra's lover on the other phone, I gotta go. I've been helping him sell his condo, he's gonna move in with Myra as soon as I leave the city. He's a _jet pilot,_ " he puts a little stank on the last couple of words with a chuckle. 

A loud noise of protest leaves Richie's throat as he stands up, "Hey, woah, what the fuck? Myra gets to have her wholeass _lover_ and you won't even send me unsexy pictures of you stretching? This is fucking bullshit, I'm calling the B.B.B., I don't give a shit if he's served our nation, I have too and I don't get a fucking medal for it--"

"No, dude, like a private jet pilot," Eddie laughs, delighted by Richie's indignance. "He flies rich people around the country. He's never held a weapon in his fucking life, you'd throttle him in a fight in two seconds flat. He's just like a little fat guy with no hair."

"Are you KIDDING me? That's fucking WORSE, you're letting us get upstaged by the fucking Penguin, dude? Send me a dick pic before you go in, I don't give a shit if you're soft as hell right now, I demand equal fucking treatment in this amicable fucking divorce, or I'll kidnap Dennis myself and see whats so special about him."  
  
"Good _BYE_ , loser," Eddie says, his voice full of laughter, as he hangs up the phone, shoots back the rest of his wine in one gulp, and heads inside to deal with Daniel. 

There's something comforting, honestly, about the fact that Myra's lover of the past several years has just been a normal man. When Eddie first heard that she'd been having an affair for so many years, he imagined someone tall dark and handsome-- isn't that the sort of man women have affairs with, after all? The fact that he's just a sweaty, normal balding guy in his 50s brings him a little relief, honestly. And it makes him feel like an upgrade, in comparison, which does wonders for his confidence. 

His confidence was pretty handily slashed by the deep, puckered scars in the center of his chest and back-- but then it's been balanced in kind by how much exercise he's been doing, to recover from those same injuries. He hadn't exactly been an active guy in the past couple of decades, he'd just slipped comfortably into office work and got an office bod to accompany it-- but over the past few months he's been tightening up old screws and letting out some of the junk so to speak. 

He doubts he'll ever be shredded, even when he was at his skinniest as a kid he always had an inescapable little paunch that sit on top of all his waistbands, and not only is he not interested in the amount of work it would take to get a six pack at this age, but he's pretty sure Richie would complain about upstaging him if he did, anyway. He still might, considering how trim Eddie has managed to work himself, even if he still can't rid of those fucking love handles or the little roll that sits on top of his slacks and jeans. Just a symptom of aging, he guesses. 

Even without Richie's occasional salacious comments, he does find himself wondering what Richie will think of him whenever they're intimate again-- and then the thought of actually _being_ intimate with Richie again will hit him like a sledge hammer to the chest, completely winding him for several seconds as though he'd been physically struck. He knows it's going to happen again, and probably pretty _soon_ , but the fact that he's this fucking excited over just thinking about it from time to time doesn't bode well for what kind of stamina he's actually going to have when the time comes. Ah well, he never really had much when he was a kid, either. He wonders if Richie will still ravenously service him like he used to, without letting Eddie get a single word in edgewise. 

With Eddie's advice, however, Richie doesn't have the time to contemplate the same. Richie's mind has been known to race when left to its own devices. Anxiety wasn't ever really talked about growing up, but it was certainly something Richie could relate and understand if he ever put the goddamn pieces together. He was an overthinker by nature, so when given the suggestion to fill his time and make it work for him? He took it as the sage wisdom it was.

A small tour, nothing big, nothing fancy. Richie's original idea was to pick up in his car and just go, but after being told very resolutely by every single fucking person in his life that it wasn't going to happen, he eventually agrees to a bus and a staff no larger than four, including the driver. PA, manager, general caretaker, and driver-- the four horsemen of the apocalypse. They take off before the roads get busy, around 3am, and Richie texts Eddie a picture of himself in shitty, orange tourbus lighting to prove he's actually doing it. 

For the shows themselves, most of them are small, taking place in run-down bars and cafes where they have open mic nights. The first few weren't even really for comedians, their open mics almost entirely solicited by starving artists or poets, and a couple times Richie actually got berated off stage-- especially when he tries to talk to a group of scholarly-looking college kids about jerking off into your friends t-shirt and not telling them about it. 

But when word begins to spread that Trashmouth is on tour, the internet-- or at least, Richie's very small corner of it-- ripples like the aftershock of an Earthquake. More mysterious still is the goddamn secrecy of it all. New locations were announced at odd hours, and never the same ones twice. Sometimes Richie would appear on Instagram live to quickly ask people to meet him just across the border of New York and into Pennsylvania, sometimes he would subtweet someone with coordinates, other times he would just post a picture of a diner he was staying at.

It lead to a phenomena of Where's Richie-- still constricted to just Richie's very small circle of die-hard fans, the national news media really didn't give a shit about him anymore except a passing mention on the bottom scroll-- that had more and more fans coming to his little shows, packing small, locally-owned bars to the brim and filling whole towns with laughter and cheering, many towns which never received such attention from any kind of celebrity. 

It made Richie feel good. He liked doing it, even if it was exhausting, even if the long days on the road lead to him missing chances to talk to Eddie, or missed opportunities to relax and veg out-- Driving was relaxing, in its way, and maybe best of all? He was using his own material in this tour. And he was fucking _killing_.

Eddie caught a couple little instagram videos here and there, snippets and moments of his shows that made his chest feel warm over the next few weeks, watching Richie in his element. He's still a little scared of the idea of dating someone famous, even if Richie isn't exactly A-List, but he was also scared of going back to Derry, and he did _that_ just fine. Dating Richie almost definitely won't lead to him getting stabbed, either. 

But mostly, that month is spent tying up all the loose ends Eddie can. He's thrown a farewell party by his old coworkers, many of which promise to keep in touch, though he knows they won't, beyond sending birthday wishes on facebook. The divorce is all set to go, all they need to do is officially turn in the paper work to make the split legally binding, the last step they have to take before Richie leaves next month. 

It's surreal, packing up and getting ready to leave the city he'd spent so many years in. Chicago has come to feel so much like his home that it does make him sad in his stomach to think about leaving. There's a selfish part of him that wants to ask if Richie would come to him, but he would never actually do that. There's too much symbolism in it for Eddie, for him to not move away from this place and make a clean break with the city in order to start the next chapter of his life. 

Unfortunately, the more that Eddie closes up on all of the things he has to do on his end, the more restless he becomes. He'd given Richie the advice to do something with his time so he didn't lose his mind counting the minutes-- and then that quickly becomes exactly what _Eddie's_ doing. He doesn't have anything else to do on his end, he doesn't have any more legal matters to clear up, it's just a waiting game for the last four physical therapy appointments, and then he'll be free and clear. 

However, between appointments, _he's_ the one now climbing the walls. Myra luckily isn't home very much, spending as much time with Daniel as she pleases now that she doesn't have to sneak for the first time in their relationship, which gives Eddie the run of the place-- but he doesn't really have anything to do. He can't even talk to Richie, since he'd sent him on that damn tour. He's glad that Richie is occupying himself, really he is-- he's just frustrated that he didn't think of anything to occupy _himself_ with, either. 

He just keeps unpacking and repacking his few belongings, tetrising them into new configurations, trying to minimize the amount of suitcases and boxes he actually has to bring with him in the car. It's not that he doesn't have room-- it's mostly really just to give him something to do. He dumps out one of the boxes on the floor just to start over while he watches something on TV, proud of himself for actually being able to sit on his butt on the floor without pain. The physical therapy has been doing wonders for him beyond recovering from his injuries-- which are really all but healed up, now. He still gets some soreness on occasion, but it's nothing that a couple ibuprofen won't take care of. It's mostly the muscle weakness he still has to work on, gradually working himself up to being able to lift more and more weight. 

Deep in thought, his fingers brush something hard in the bottom of the box, and he upturns it to shake out the offending debris-- and that red tape clatters onto the ground. He picks it up and inspects it, trying to gauge what might be on it, but the battered old plastic gives him no clues. He'd said he would wait until the drive to listen to it, but... well, he's not doing anything. He pops open another box and unearths the cassette player, worried for a moment that the old thing won't even play, and when he hits the play button, his worst fears are realized. There's a slight scratching noise-- and then nothing. 

He pops the tape out to look at it, blowing in the compartments to hopefully dislodge some of the dust that might be making it mess up, and only then does he realize the reason it hadn't played-- the tape was already played to the end. At some point he must have listened to this, and thinking about it makes his chest clench in a funny way. He hits rewind to wind the tape back to the start, holds his breath, and presses play.

He's greeted with the sound of Richie's voice-- but a young, very young Richie. Sixteen or seventeen years old, putting on some kind of fake radio broadcast, complete with stupid sound effects from the electric keyboard Eddie suddenly remembers Richie used to have. He wonders if he still plays piano, or if he gave it up after everything. 

He remembers the tape, now. Richie had given it to him along with a few other things to comfort him when he was sent away to Bible camp that one summer when he broke his nose. That was the last summer they ever had together, and part of it was stolen by a goddamn fucking shitty football. 

Sitting on the floor of his living room, Eddie doesn't know exactly at what point he started crying, but now he can't stop. He listens to Richie's stupid, childish jokes and sobs like a baby over Myra's pristine white carpet, in Myra's living room, in _Myra's_ apartment-- _fuck_ , he doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to be with Richie. 

All at once, Eddie is struck with the fact that there's nothing stopping him but himself. Sure, he'd had very legitimate reasons to need to come back to Chicago to pack up-- but now what? Four physical therapy appointments? He'd already done all the legal work he needed to do to make a clean break from this city, but he's holding on for four shitty doctors visits? Why did Eddie keep making fucking excuses for himself as to why he had to keep putting off being with Richie? 

He doesn't have to. He could just go. Like when Richie would beg him to run away when they were teenagers-- like he begged him in the hospital, Eddie could just go. He's in his fucking pajamas, but he could just go. He doesn't even realize he's already packing up the boxes until the flaps are fitting together, and his heart starts to pound. Is he going to just _go?_

He puts on real pants, at least. He calls his lawyer to tell him to put in the divorce papers early. He calls Myra to thank her for a truly mediocre 30 years, and to let her know the timeline of his departure has just taken a massive jump forward. He calls his doctor to leave a message letting them know he won't be making those final four appointments. Then he packs everything in his car and gets behind the wheel. 

Middle of the night, no plan, no _socks_ like a fucking hoodlum, Eddie Kaspbrack _goes_. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter fellas! it's a long one, because I couldn't find a natural space to break it up, so buckle in, grab a snack, and brace yourself

By now, if someone wanted to hit up one of the Trashmouth Underground Off-Grid Anarchist Happy Hanukkah Roadshows (not his name, but it's what his tour has been come to be called) all you have to do is ask. Or Google, in Eddie's case. It just takes a quick search of his name, and a not-as quick scour through comments dating back weeks, to find Richie had ended up, somehow, in _Northern Ohio._ A week before Christmas. Apparently if Eddie Kaspbrak was going to go, the world wasn't going to make it easy on him. Fortunately the drive is mostly highways and mostly bereft of life at all this close to the holidays, Eddie only really has to grit his teeth and drive through the snow for five miserable hours, and then the snowy, obscured sign welcoming him to Eastlake, Ohio, greets him.

A small town on the coast of Ohio's northern shoreline, the roads are lined with quaint, snow-draped roofs and strung with lights. It looks like a town from a romance novel, really, the lake beyond frozen on the shore, the dark having long since cloaked the city in a warm, fuzzy glow. There had to be about 5 inches of snow already on the ground, with the snowbanks reaching a couple feet at least, and if the sudden wind was anything to judge by.... more was on the way. Fat, wet flurries of snow beginning to hit Eddie's windshield confirms it not a second later. Eddie sighs irritably and turns on his windshield wipers.

Richie was at a bar in town, drawing crowds from the nearby Cleveland, and even some from Toledo-- but overall, the approaching holidays meant that the house didn't seem too terribly packed. From his green room in the back, Richie could tell the parking lot was full, but that could mean a myriad of things-- most notably that the bar really needed a bigger parking lot, considering the bar's inside was much more spacious than the parking lot would allot. 

Not that it mattered. Whoever was here, was here. The show had turned into such an expression of _him_ that Richie could barely bring himself to even care if it turned out good or bad. It was the perfect end to this chapter of his life, the perfect send off of his sad little recluse of a life into the great beyond. Eddie would be home in a month. Just a month, and they could start their fucking life. This nightmare was over. 

_Can you keep everyone out of my room before the show?_ Richie texts the manager he knows full well is lingering right outside of his door, mother-henning and worrying as usual over him. _Just need some quiet._ he explains, putting his phone down only when he's given the affirmative and putting on his headphones to capitalize on the peace.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to Richie, one of the people he'd just insisted be kept out was none other than the only person in the entire fucking world he _wanted_ to see right now. Eddie makes his way into the bar, and realizes the show hasn't even started yet, which means Richie will be in the back somewhere getting ready. If he can just scoot past the people, he can give him a kiss or something before he goes on stage, and for the first time Eddie will really get to see him work. 

But before he can make it down the hallway to the back, an arm shoots out to stop him, and he looks up into the face of someone wearing a suit, someone who seems pretty damn official. And here's Eddie, wearing fucking house shoes with no socks, jeans and a tee shirt that he definitely threw on inside out, like an idiot, in his scramble to get out the door before he lost his nerve. 

"Mr. Tozier will talk to the fans after the show," the man says flatly. 

"What?" Eddie blurts. "Oh-- no, I'm not a fan, I'm his friend," he says quickly. "He knows me."

"I'm sure. Everyone feels very close to Trashmouth," says Richie's manager, raising a had to block Eddie with a firm palm to the chest, like he could put up a barrier with that one hand. It seemed to be working for now, at least, especially considering his opposite hand was preoccupied by texting, attention clearly split. If Eddie was some kind of actual threat he could have easily pushed his way aside by now.

Fortunately-- or unfortunately, as the case may be-- he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead, the manager closes his phone with a derisive click, and gives Eddie a once-over that could be right out of Mean Girls, "He requested not to see anyone until after the show. Maybe you can ask him to meet you around back with all the other fangirls," he drawls, deadpan as he crosses his arms and moves to stand just a bit more firmly in the way.

"I'm not a fucking _fangirl_ ," Eddie says, his cheeks heating up over the derisive way the man looked him over. "I'm his fucking best friend, okay?"

"He didn't say you were coming," the manager doesn't seem impressed. 

"Yeah, I fucking drove here for six hours to surprise him, would you let me _in?_ Just tell him who I am-- just say Eddie's here, he'll let me in," Eddie says impatiently. He fought and killed a fucking demon clown, he could asskick this stupid suit across the fucking bar, and he kind of _wants to_ , since he's apparently the only thing standing between him and Richie, who is so close that Eddie can _feel it_ burning in his entire fucking body. 

"You know, I think if Richie had a best friend, I'd be the one to know about it, considering I run his whole--" The suit waves a hand generically in the air, "--Y'know, shit."

The man sounds entirely nonplussed by the foot stomping from the disheveled man in front of him. He moves again, this time taking a step forward to land just a bit too close to Eddie's space for professional comfort. Fingers tightening on his arms, the man gives Eddie another once-over, eyes narrowing, "Why don't you go get a drink and enjoy the show, bud. It'll start in only about ten minutes, lucky you."

Eddie looks like he's about to square the fuck up, and he honestly _might have_ if he didn't have a vivid flash back to Richie "squaring up" with his mother and causing their entire fucking reunion to be put on ice for 30 goddamn years because of one fucking hour in jail. Eddie is _seething_ , but he won't risk their reunion here on a goddamn assault charge. Even though thanks to the last five months of exercise he's pretty sure he could put this guy through a table without a struggle, he won't risk it.

"Richie's going to kill you," he says instead, and then turns away to march back out of the bar, letting the door slam on his way out. He'll get back to his car, where his phone was charging on the cord, and just fucking _call him_ , for fuck's sake, and then revel in the way Richie is gonna chew this guy out for turning Eddie away.

As soon as he's back out in the snow, though, despair hits him in the chest. The fact that he'd just been kicked out, the fact that he left without a fight-- it feels like it's trying to be some kind of final _something_ , though he refuses to let it be. It still knocks the air out of him, and his hands are shaking, his eyes are brimming with tears as he hurries back to his car in the downpouring snow, the flakes all sticking to his hair and too-thin sweater, cramming his hands into his armpits to keep them from freezing off. 

In a parody of dramatic irony, Richie pokes his nose out of the door a scant minute after Eddie was so crudely brushed aside, unaware of the man still making the trek through the snow. "Hey, Steve, you wanna do me a favor and get me a bourbon on the rocks. Two fingers?" He asks, holding up the two fingers helpfully, as if for reference. Like his own manager wouldn't know what two meant. 

"Sure thing, Rich," His manager says, with a bright smile, "In fact, I'll make it 4. You might need the help tonight, you got a wild crowd out there. Already got a fan trying to break into your dressing room a second ago."

And that surprises Richie, eyebrow raising as he tilts his head curiously, "What, seriously?" He asks, sounding amused, "We get a bus from Cleveland or something? Remind me to tip the waitstaff before we go."

There's a noise of confirmation, and Steve taps a note into his phone as he talks, "Nah, not a bus, just one person. Some guy, said he was your best friend."

"My best friend? That's a new one." 

"That's what I said! Said if anyone knew who Richie Trashmouth's best friend was, it'd be his fuckin' manager," Steve jeers, finishing an email on his phone before tucking it back into his breast pocket, "Don't even sweat it, though. I took care of him," he explains, turning and opening the door to cluck and fuss with Richie's collar, his slovenly-adorned tie, "You should've heard this dude, Rich, seriously. _I drove for six hours_ ," Steve's voice pitches high, a poor facsimile of Eddie's voice, " _Just say Eddie's here and he'll let me in_. Stupid."

Predictably, Richie's entire body goes stiff, and he all but smacks Steve's hands off of him, "What the fuck did you just say?"

Steve looks taken aback, hands raised at the sudden attack, "What, 'stupid'?" He asks, sounding thrown by the sudden hostility.

"No, the name," Richie snaps impatiently, "What did he tell you his name was?"

"Uh... Eddie?" Steve says, hands still raised.

"Are you fucking KIDDING me?" Richie all but bellows, not even bothering to grab his coat off of the hook just within the room, before charging past Steve, throwing the concerned arm that comes down on his shoulder to try and stop him. 

Richie, clad in a positively hideous dusty-rose color block shirt, black undershirt, and jeans, wasn't much better prepared for the weather as he steps off of the front porch, but in the distance he can only barely make out a lone figure marching through the snow, the only one on the street-- "HEY!" Richie shouts from the front door, hoping against hope that it would somehow be enough to catch his attention. It, of course, was not. Nothing in Richie's life was that easy.

So he takes off into the snow. There was no room in the parking lot, so this poor dude-- whether it was a random fan or actually, god forbid, _Eddie_ \-- must've had to park on the street in front, where cars had also been lined up for some time. Surely he didn't park in the nearby neighborhood..? Richie could only hope he made it in time to make sure the person was taken care of either way.

"HEY! HEY, HANG ON!" Richie shouts. The closer he gets, the more he can feel his heart pounding in his throat and chest. The closer he gets, the more he can see, with less and less shadow of a doubt, that it's fucking Eddie walking through the snow. It's fucking Eddie that came to see _him_. It's fucking _Eddie_ who got kicked out by his _fucking_ _manager_ \-- Richie could only see his back from how far away he was, chest heaving plumes of smoke into the crisp night air, but he knew it was Eddie. He would know that back anywhere. That ass.

He runs until he can grab Eddie by the back of the collar, his fingers very nearly missing him as he gasps for air. The cold and resistance from the snow was surely what he'd use for an excuse as he pants, exhaustedly.

"You-- made it," Richie says, putting his hands on his hips, trying to act casual.

Eddie had heard him when he was a few feet away, but didn't have time to turn around before Richie was manhandling him by the back of the shirt. He turns around to see Richie doubling over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air like he'd run a mile rather than like-- 200 feet, or something. Eddie's really gotta talk to him about the smoking. 

"Your manager's a fucking asshole," Eddie says, his heart pounding in his chest now that he's actually across from him, standing in the snow with Richie fucking Tozier, neither of them outfitted for the weather, frankly. Eddie can see all the hair on Richie's arms standing up in a feeble attempt to keep him warm, even as fat fluffy snowflakes land and melt on his forearms. 

"Yeah, well," Richie says, still gasping for air before pushing himself upright through sheer force of will, refusing to stay bent over when Eddie was looking at him like that, "He just thought I died for a couple of days and when I came back found out I almost _did_ die, so-- trying to be understanding-- but-- total dick. Absolutely a dick." 

He just looks so fucking happy to see him. Richie's eyes are bright and his face is flushed, no doubt primarily from the snow and the run, but he looks like he was absolutely glowing with adoration, with love for the man in front of him, "I didn't know you were coming tonight," He says gently, reaching out to take Eddie's elbow in one large hand, trying to coax him nearer, "Did you drive all this way just to see me? Eds, that's crazy," He whispers, and sounds delighted when he does.

"Yeah," Eddie says, swallowing hard. "I uh-- I turned all my paperwork in early. I didn't wanna wait another month. I think I would have gone fucking crazy if I tried, so I just-- fucking packed up like six hours ago and drove right here. Is that okay? I know you're in the middle of something."As if Richie would turn him away now. He knows in his guts he wouldn't, and he's learned to trust those gut feelings more than anything else in the world, over the past few months. They've never lead him wrong. "I just wanted to see you," he admits, moving closer when Richie beckons him, standing in the yellow glow of the street lamp casting an almost romantic bath of golden light down on them, in between all the houses strung up with Christmas lights. It looks like something out of a fucking Hallmark movie. 

"Yeah?" Richie asks, entranced. He hasn't stopped smiling since Eddie had turned around. His face was beginning to hurt from it. He was beginning to wonder if he might get stuck in that position forever. He also realizes, in that moment, that it really doesn't fucking matter. 

Wrapping his arms around Eddie without a second thought, Richie pulls Eddie into his embrace and buries his face in Eddie's hair. Where Eddie was cold from being saturated from the slow, sad slog through the snow, Richie was piping hot. He'd just come from inside, he'd been drinking, he sprinted to catch up with Eddie-- and to top it off, Richie was just bigger than Eddie, so he was more than happy to donate his warmth. 

Vigorous hands rub up and down Eddie's back, across his shoulders and down his biceps. Richie's hands work warmth and feeling back into each of those sections of his body, until Eddie's shivering had calmed down as much as possible. "I'm glad you're here," Richie mutters, chin tucked over Eddie's shoulder. From here, Richie could breathe him in, eyes closed, dreamy smile on his lips, "Please don't leave."

"I wasn't _leaving_ ," Eddie says, his heart slamming up into his mouth when Richie just-- grabs and hugs him. Right there, in the middle of the street, in full view of-- fucking anyone. Richie doesn't even care, he's not even scared, he just _does it_ , and all of a sudden his rubbing hands are a wasted effort, because Eddie's entire body goes hot. "I was just going to my car to get my phone and _call_ _you_ , jackass."

A part of him warns to pull away, that this is dangerous-- but that's the kid inside him talking. The rational adult knows that men can hug in the street without their lives being ruined, things are _different_ than they were in the 90s, and God himself could tell him to stop hugging Richie right now, and he wouldn't. If Richie isn't scared, Eddie isn't going to be scared, either. 

"Are you good, dude?" he asks, basking in the warmth coming off of Richie. "You're in fucking short sleeves."

 _"Good?"_ Richie repeats, like he's actually confused by the question, "Are you kidding me? I'm _great!_ You're here! You showed up! We're in _Ohio_ dude!" He says, gesturing to the barren tundra around them. It wasn't really barren with the houses and the lights and the obvious, open business just a short walk away, but there definitely wasn't anyone out as the snow began to come down in harder flurries, sticking to Eddie's eyelashes and his hair. 

Only then did Richie seem to realize what was going on, "Oh-- wait, holy shit, it's snowing-- are you okay?" He gives Eddie a once over, and actually stops before he even begins, head tilting down at Eddie's house-shoes-no-socks choice, "Wait, are you-- this is real, right? You're not having some weird emotional breakdown from everything and I'm gonna have to escort you back to Maya for another six months?" He asks, sounding nervous.

His hands still hold onto Eddie's elbows for the pleasure of touching him, though. Eddie decides not to correct him on Myra's name. It doesn't fucking matter. 

"This is real," Eddie says, instead. "All my shit is in my car. I cancelled the last four appointments with my physical therapist, and told my lawyer to turn in the divorce paperwork. Everything else can be done over the phone, I don't need to be there. It's real, Richie, it's done, I'm here. I officially left Chicago and I'm not going back, man. I probably-- coulda put on real fucking shoes, though, actually I'm freezing."

He wants to ask to go back inside, but there's a part of him that's still stupidly scared to. He doesn't know how to navigate what they've got now. He doesn't know what Richie wants, they haven't had a chance to talk about it in between everything else. He doesn't even know if Richie wants to be out, or secret, or what. Whatever he wants, Eddie will do it, he'd go along gladly if Richie wanted to call Eddie his fucking _concubine_ in public-- but the uncertainty of how he should conduct himself makes his palms sweat. 

"No shit you're freezing, dumbass," Richie says with a loud, dramatic scoff, and an arm raising to toss around his neck, "Come on, let's get you inside, my set starts in--" he glances at his watch and looks taken aback, then squints again. According to it he started in less than two minutes, so he had a decision to make-- he could either make Eddie run so he wouldn't be late to his own show, he could make Eddie walk in alone, or he could just take the hit and be late onstage to his own show. Considering this was his own show, and considering how much he was being lauded for just being himself, he figured he could meander a little.

"--Show starts in fifteen, we should probably get walking," Richie lies, and turns Eddie around to walk him to the bar, pressed flush against his side like he didn't give a single, flying fuck about who saw. Best of all-- he _didn't._ It was entirely thanks to almost dying, of course. Richie pre-Derry would have never, despite how much he hated his circumstances.

Richie post-Derry, however, was a whole new man, and he held onto Eddie's shoulders and shared his warmth only until he had to let go to open the door, ushering Eddie back into the warmth of the bar and the crowded scene before them. The bar was heavily populated with what looked like mostly kids under 30, all excitedly talking amongst one another and within groups-- some shared a table, others shared the bar.

After a second of looking, Richie sees one, solitary seat at the bar for someone, and that's quietly where he steers Eddie so as to prevent drawing attention to himself, and to Eddie. With both hands on Eddie's shoulders, he guides him through the loosely-packed bar before sitting him down, then pointing at the bartender and telling him everything Eddie ordered would be on his tab.

"Okay, order what you want," Richie says, leaning down to Eddie's face level. For one breathless moment, it seems like he might actually kiss Eddie, that's how fucking excited he is, but instead he reconsiders at the last moment. No, not right now. Not right now.

It was just hard to contain the joy that was filling every single fucking crevice of his body. Eddie was here. Eddie was here. _Eddie was here._ Eddie had _left_ Myra. He was packed. They could go home _right now_ and that would be the end of it, they could start their lives together, they could move on, they could be what they were always meant to be, WHO they were always meant to be--their life could finally fucking begin! What the fuck was there not to be excited for?!

With another squeeze of Eddie's shoulders and a beaming smile at the bartender, Richie looks up, nods, and then basically sprints down the side aisle of the entire bar, long steps taking him much farther, much faster, than Eddie's ever could. He takes the stairs leading up to the stage with one massive step. He's breathless again when he grabs the mic, hair mussed, face flushed, and eyes bright and honestly? A little bit wild.

He still hasn't stopped smiling. In the crowd, his eyes immediately find Eddie. He smiles wider. "Sorry folks for the delay!" Richie shouts into the microphone. "But that's my fucking _boyfriend_ , he just drove all the way down here from Chicago in his fucking SLIPPERS, he's sexy as fuck, and I'm in love with him-- NOW WHO WANTS TO HEAR SOMETHING ABOUT MY DICK?"

The crowd roars. It's his best performance yet.

Eddie had enters a fugue state the moment Richie just blurted that out in front of god and everyone. There was a terrified moment where he thought the crowd would turn on them, the noise was too much for a split second-- but then he realizes they're cheering. They're _cheering_ for Richie. They're cheering for Richie being _with_ Eddie. Maybe being with someone famous wouldn't be so scary, after all. 

Watching Richie actually in his element is honestly breathtaking. The way his eyes squinch up when he smiles, the way he swaggers across the stage, the way he grips the mic and talks into it like he's telling it a secret, even his smirks and his little dances have Eddie sitting at the bar with his chin in his hand, watching with lovestruck eyes. It's starting to sink in how real this is, and how fucking insane. He drove across the country in the middle of the night without a plan just to be with the man currently gyrating on stage as he tells a story that has the crowd in an uproar. 

And he'd do it again. He doesn't regret the irresponsibility or recklessness for a single fucking second. He left that part of his life behind and is fully ready to jump into this new one with both feet. 

He doesn't actually have anything to drink, mostly because he _had_ driven his car here and he'd probably have to drive it away, too. But he nurses a club soda as he watches Richie talk and joke and laugh joyously. He gets more than a few chuckles out of Eddie, and every time he does Richie will point him out in the audience and shout about how that joke made his BOYFRIEND laugh so anyone who DIDN'T laugh has NO TASTE! It makes Eddie sheepish but gleeful every time Richie screams the word boyfriend like the world will end if he doesn't say it loud enough. 

People would later blow up Twitter talking about how "unhinged" Richie had been. His social medias had been buzzing for a while in fallout from the show, and although Tumblr fucking hated him according to one of his PAs, the show in Eastlake, Ohio (the one where the 40-year-old c-list celebrity comes out and proclaims his love to a crowd of college kids before telling dick jokes for almost two hours) quickly catapulted him to the top of almost every 'Tumblr Faves' list, every 'Soft Boys uwu' compilation. Richie Trashmouth has _flower crown edits_ made of him, and frankly? There was not really any better way to come out, then into the loving embrace of internet culture.

The plan had been to work through Christmas, barring the fact that he wanted his employees to be able to go home and spend time with their families, so the plan was for him to just shack up in whatever small town they ended up in and they'd meet him here when they were done. But with Eddie here early there's absolutely no reason to keep working. So, just as things were getting good.... they end. 

Richie does a couple more shows on their way through New York for the fans, but then has to explain that he has to help the boyfriend move in and that he would do this again whenever he wanted-- and they ate it up, both the boyfriend moving in and Richie's callous disregard for owing the fanbase anything like definitive dates for shows. A star dying before its prime, Richie got calls from his manager talking about what a goddamn shame it was he was cancelling the tour, just when he was getting popular. 

But popular and money didn't matter anymore. Followers and hype and subscribers didn't matter. What matters is getting Eddie home, getting Eddie situated, and doing whatever the fuck they wanted. If they really hustled, they could get it done before Christmas-- and have their first family Christmas (somewhat) in peace.

When driving behind the tour bus became too painful for the pair, Richie sprung for a goddamn trailer attachment that he hooked onto the back bumper of the bus _himself_ just so Eddie could ride in the bus with him-- and it really made all the difference in the world, those last couple of days. Being able to curl up in the bus together while Richie talked about his shows and Eddie laid back against his chest-- it was heavenly. 

Arriving at his apartment, Eddie had honestly expected some kind of nasty bachelor pad-- and to his surprise, he finds that Richie's apartment is nearly spotless. A shock, considering the state his bedroom had always been in, growing up. It's damn near spartan, in its brushed metal, exposed brick and leather macho-industrial quality, and Eddie is immediately comforted by the fact that he isn't going to have to do a shit load of cleaning. 

But it's also kind of sad, how little personality Richie's place has. It's barren of most signs of life, save for a few of his awards and things lining the living room wall across from the giant windows. Other than that, it looks basically like a magazine spread, with artfully decorated dark leather furniture and still finishings. It's comfortably dimly lit, with a generous floor plan and two bedrooms-- one of which Richie uses as an office/den of sorts. That doesn't matter, they'll be sharing the bedroom, anyway. 

Dropping his suitcases to the floor (really technically more weight than he should be carrying, but Richie doesn't need to know that, he'll just be sore after, and the alternative was letting Richie make all those trips down to carry every suitcase and bag himself which wasn't going to happen) Eddie opens every door in the place just to check it all out. 

"The view is great," Eddie comments, eyeballing the balcony curiously. "Are you allowed to have pets here? You know the first thing we have to do is get a dog."

Richie, who had been watching Eddie's strict scrutiny with a nervous little shuffle to his step while he hustled around turning lights on and showing him around, realizes just how _wrong_ this apartment feels with Eddie in it. Not that Eddie was the problem, absolutely not, but it becomes hideously obvious that his apartment was one of the least-Richie Tozier things he owned-- and he had't even realized it until now.

It looks like the man with a lot of money and no soul. Dark wood, sleek and hard uncomfortable furniture, and rooms that looked like they belong inside of a magazine instead of inside the home of a man who went by the stage name Trashmouth. Before Derry it'd been just that: a nice apartment downtown that he'd bought pre-furnished because he couldn't think of the chore without his gut feeling like he'd just been sucker-punched three times in rapid succession.

But now that Eddie's there, Richie realizes how wrong it all was. They were supposed to have lots of light. Warmth. Eddie had wanted a well-worn leather sofa and a fireplace to curl up in front of, not the sleek, low to the ground number that belonged in Batman's den. Richie had wanted a corner for his keyboard and music and vinyls, not just a keyboard he never touched pushed against the back wall of his office and lined with plastic, dust-filled plants. 

"View's probably the best thing about it, really," Richie admits guiltily. The most Richie the place had taken on was the faint smell of cigarette smoke throughout the entire apartment, which at least let it feel like _someone_ lived here, and not just a fashionable mannequin. He tries to ignore the way his heart clenches at the mention of a dog. A dog? Pennywise made him fucking forget his _dog?_ And that he wanted another one?

Richie stands rooted to the spot for a long moment, just clenching and unclenching the back of a chair between his fingers, trying to even out his breathing. "Yeah. For sure. Probably should get... better furniture and shit for the place first, though, right? I mean, it can piss all over this, I don't give a fuck, but I don't want the little guy to have to sleep on this shit." And to prove the point, he kicks the corner of his coffee table, that does look like its reinforced with concrete. He winces, but bravely doesn't complain.

"Do you, uh-- want something to eat? Drink?" Richie falls over himself a little trying to get to the kitchen, which was actually _very_ fucking nice, open concept with sleek appliances and a little island looking out onto the open living room and the giant window and skyline beyond it. He opens his fridge to find actually very little in there, a symptom of not... expecting Eddie to be here, right now. "...I can order you something?"

"Not hungry," Eddie says as he shrugs out of his sweater and hangs it up on a hook near the door. They'd eaten only a couple hours ago on the bus when they stopped through a Wendy's on the way home, but Eddie can tell Richie is just stalling awkwardly. He finally has Eddie alone, for the first time in a week they're _alone_ without any tourbus or tour staff (or admittedly very apologetic manager) or fans or _anything_ getting in the way of them just... being together. 

Now they are together and Richie looks so nervous he's about to vibrate out of his skin. He knows Richie must be feeling the same desperation he is, there's no way he's not when he's the one who made all the jokes about Eddie sending him nudes over the past few months. So why the anxiety? 

He draws closer to Richie, reaching out past him to close the fridge, peeling his hand off the handle of the appliance, and just with that simple gesture he can feel Richie's entire body clench up. Richie's entire demeanor feels like a spring winding tighter and tighter, coiling up as the tension increases. He knows he'll snap eventually-- he just needs to nudge him in the right direction. 

"I just wanna relax," he tells Richie, pulling him away from the fridge. "We've been surrounded by people for like five fucking days, I just wanna relax."

It's pathetic how little control Richie has over his own fucking brain and physical functions. Normal men should probably have better control of their faculties. Normal men should probably be able to handle the love of their life taking their hand and moving them across the room with nothing more than the innocent request for rest and relaxation. Normal men had probably had some type of fulfilling sex within the last thirty years, though, so maybe he needed to be a little bit nicer on himself. 

"Yeah, yeah, sure, we can relax," Richie says quickly, eagerly, wiping his hands on his jeans and hoping Eddie doesn't notice that they're gross and so is he. "I mean, nice having you on the road with me for the last week, you know, but-- yeah. Totally, relax, we'll--" He looks around. His entire apartment is relaxation proof. "I have a really nice shower," Richie offers, helpfully, "And a Jacuzzi tub I've... never used except to get stoned a couple times and watch TV until I fell asleep. Don't do that anymore, though," He says quickly, in case Eddie hated the idea of him smoking anything harder than cigarettes.

They're closer than they have been in a while, at least without an audience, so there was nothing stopping him. Nothing stopping him at all. "You're still in your, uh-- driving--" he gestures helplessly, "--stuff. Maybe, uh-- you wanna-- slip into something more comfortable and I can figure out my fireplace?" That he's literally never used and pretty sure he lost the remote to-- what the fuck ever, if Eddie wanted comfortable he'd get fucking comfortable.

That sounds as much like an invitation as anything. 'Slip into something more comfortable' who the fuck _says_ that in real life? Eddie's heart is pounding in his chest. "Yeah, I can do that," he says, laying a hand in the center of Richie's chest for just a moment before he slips away, and starts unpacking until he finds what he's looking for. 

He's been working hard for the past five months to whip himself back into fighting shape after nearly dying, and god damn it he intends to show off. He finds his fancy monogrammed pajamas that Myra had gotten him for christmas so many years ago, make of a fine black silk with an extremely high thread count, but decides that a big oversized top with buttons isn't the look for tonight, and instead grabs a tee shirt he'd never had the confidence to wear before, that cups his chest a little too tightly and slings a little too low in a vee that might actually show off a little bit of his scar-- but there's no point in hiding it, right? It's not like they can pretend it didn't happen. 

The only reason he doesn't immediately throw himself at Richie is because he wants to give himself a thorough clean before he lets the other man get his hands on him. He's been sitting on a bus for the last eight hours-- and sure, so has Richie, but for some reason, Eddie finds himself not caring, he just wants to make a good impression after so many years. 

Richie's shower doesn't have a hose attachment for a real, proper clean out, instead it has some kind of fancy waterfall tap feature-- but that's fine for now. Eddie can always get one himself later. Instead he just gets a little bit distracted with his fingers and soap until he remembers that he's actually supposed to be getting back out to Richie-- to the love of his fucking _life_ , waiting for him in the living room. Probably sitting there all awkward turtle on the sofa like an idiot. It makes Eddie grin to himself. 

He towels off his hair and dons the silk pajama pants (no underwear, no sense in bothering) and pulls the soft black shirt over his head. It hugs the curves of his waist, which is more trim thanks to his relentless workouts over the past five months than it's been since he was in his 20s (even if he still can't quite get rid of those fucking love handles) but more eye catching is just how much of the scar in his chest is visible. It's fucking dramatic is what it is, a big cross-shaped scar starting from right under his collar bone that bisects him down to the bottom of his ribs, a few branches stretching out beneath the curve of his chest where his skin had torn thanks to-- 

No, he can't think about that. He has to force that out of his mind. Richie knows he has a scar, he doesn't need to hide it. He swallows hard, gives himself a final once-over in the mirror, and then finally leaves the bathroom, padding up the steps into the raised living room, where Richie is changing the batteries in a remote. 

"Hey..." he pauses on the top step, feeling just as breathless now at the sight of Richie as he's felt every time he lays eyes on him after five fucking minutes without seeing him. That's gotta stop at some point, he's sure. He can't be this much of a fucking simp for his own boyfriend. 

"Hang on, hang on, I just-- tore these out of the fucking electric kettle, let me just--" words spoken through grit teeth, Richie struggles for just a second longer with the remote. He's not stupid, he can hear that breathless tone in Eddie's voice, and it makes his entire gut clench up all the way to his asshole. He wants to sink into Eddie so fucking bad, even when he had only vaguely felt him pressed flush with his side in the bus.

It hadn't been enough at the time, either, but they'd been flanked by people on every side, so he couldn't very well follow through on any of the hungry impulses that overcame him whenever Eddie drifted too close to him. He was like a goddamn siren, singing a song to seduce Richie without ever opening his goddamn mouth, just looking at him with those big brown puppy eyes and that fucking face--

Richie finally gets the remote to work, and with a warm woosh of air, the fireplace against the far wall to Richie's apartment lights up, probably working for the first time since he'd _bought_ the fucking place. It does do wonders for the interior, though, bathing the entire living room in a warm, orange light. Turning to face Eddie properly, finally, Richie opens his mouth like he'd prepared to speak at some point, only for his jaw to actually physically _drop_ once he sees what Eddie had come out wearing. It wasn't lingerie, it wasn't even _sexy_ , arguably, considering it was just pants and a shirt...

But jesusfuckingchrist it _was_ sexy, and jesusfuckingchrist Richie suddenly didn't know what to do with himself.

"Uuuhhh..." He says stupidly, like he had little more mental faculties then a grunting caveman. There's no stopping his eyes from lingering and moving, no stopping his gaze from traveling up and down Eddie's body, then _back_ up and down his body, greedily devouring everything he saw, "Wow," He says, when words finally grace them with their presence again, "You look... wow." 

Really, what else could he say? He was but a man. And even though Eddie had on-purpose put this on to make Richie feel something, to actually _see_ the effects he's having on the man with his own two eyes makes his stomach boil hotly. 

"You don't even have a battery stash? Do you even live here?" Eddie asks, instead of addressing the way Richie's looking at him, and he takes the remote from his hand to set it on a shelf that's barren other than Richie's trophies and awards, all gathering dust. Eddie might have to do a _little_ bit of cleaning, after all. 

He puts a hand in the middle of Richie's chest and pushes him backwards, the taller man stumbling until his knees hit the back of the couch and he drops like a sack of bricks with a gust of air-- and then Eddie is climbing directly into his lap, sitting on him, crowding into his space so he's haloed from behind by orange light-- but Richie only has a second to appreciate the view before Eddie is leaning in to finally, after a week, _kiss_ Richie. 

And Richie, being Richie and unable to help himself, has to pull himself away to get a smartass remark in edgewise. "Not really," He says, his voice breathless and thick and cracking with everything he wanted to say and feel and act on, but was barely restraining himself from doing, "See, six months ago I took a trip to my hometown, and--" he feels Eddie's thighs tighten around his own, kneeling on the couch and barricading Richie in. Any smartass comment he was going to make leaves his brain like water through a fucking sieve when nails rake across the hair on the nape of his neck.

"No, you're right, nevermind, it can wait," Richie says quickly, his hands raising to grab Eddie's ass greedily, and he _moans_ in response. It's hungry, carnal, and just from grabbing Eddie's ass it was a fucking compliment, as those long fingers knead the pert, perfect skin of his ass. He doesn't even comment on the scar. He doesn't think he really has to, it's sexy as shit like the fucking rest of him.

Like Eddie goddamn Kaspbrak really fucking needed to be buff and scarred, on TOP of everything else.

Hitching the smaller man higher on his lap, Richie leans up to press another searing kiss to his mouth, holding him close and pressing his tongue inside his lips, knowing full well they were parted just begging for him to claim it. And he does. Eagerly, vigorously, fingers curling up and under Eddie's ass to manhandle him down into a languid grind, where he can feel every inch of his effect on Richie.

All at once, Eddie feels like a teenager again. He can't remember the last time he got this hard this fast, it must have been when he was last with Richie. It's not that he and Myra _­never_ had sex, but it was never this fucking dizzying. Richie's tongue in his mouth tastes like tobacco and faintly like the whiskey he'd been sipping on the bus, while Eddie's tastes like toothpaste because of _course_ he'd taken the time to brush his teeth if he took a whole entire shower-- 

"Richie--" he breaks the kiss to gasp, his arms wound around his neck. He doesn't have anything more to say than that, he just wants to say his name because he can. It doesn't even feel real, being here-- it feels like no time at all had passed, like they were picking up right where they left off before Richie left Derry when they were reckless kids. 

The thin material of his silky pants lets him feel the tent of Richie's jeans as it raises to meet him, and likewise it gives him absolutely no coverage when his own cock twitches steadily higher, arching against the thin fabric that conforms to the curve like a second skin-- making it very evident that no, he's _not_ wearing underwear. Maybe his brief cleaning routine in the bathroom is partially to blame for how fast he gets hard-- but he doubts it. Even if Richie had put his hands on him seconds after he got into the apartment he would still get hard so fast his head would spin. 

It's fortunate that he didn't, that he politely gave Eddie the chance to clean himself up first-- but then just as suddenly as he's been struck with every other memory up until this point, Eddie remembers that this wasn't a gesture of politeness. Eddie was always the one to initiate when it came to Richie. He was the one who first kissed him, who dragged Richie down on top of him to dry hump him into the ground. He was the one who asked to suck Richie's cock, who came over to his house to ride him for the first time after his parents left for the weekend. He was the one who first asked to return the favor and fucked Richie in the club house. 

It was always up to Eddie. And it'll still be up to him, now. He knows what he wants, and he knows Richie wants it too-- he just has to guide him in the right direction. So he rolls his hips down to follow the guide of Richie's hands and claims his mouth again in a kiss that's neither polite or gentle. It's hard and deep and almost _mean_ it's so frantic, teeth scraping lips and breath coming out in sharp puffs through his nose. He wants to climb inside Richie's fucking mouth and live inside his body, he's so obsessed with the man under him. 

With the call of his name still shooting sparks throughout Richie's entire fucking brain, he operates on instinct. His entire body rolls and arches to get closer. His fingers are hungry, his mouth his hungrier, and his breath leaves his nose in heavy, rough pants, punctuated by growling inhales, like he couldn't help himself when handed a lap full of Eddie. He can feel Eddie isn't wearing underwear beneath his pants. He can also feel how fucking hard he is. He can feel how fucking close he is and how fucking warm. Richie can feel every single little thing about Eddie, and it's both familiar and not at the same time.

"Again," He whispers, pulling away to grab his glasses off of his nose and clumsily throw them onto the stand next to him. Refreshed, he surges in for another kiss, so hard it makes their teeth click, only to pull away a moment later to continue his hungry devouring of every inch of Eddie's skin. His lips graze up Eddie's jaw, up to his ear and down his throat.

He can feel the flutter of Eddie's heartbeat on his tongue, can feel the way his entire body reacts to his teeth when he sinks himself in and bites into his throat. At the junction where neck met clavicle, Eddie's skin goes soft and delicate, just to the right of that delicious hollow of his throat. He doesn't even stop himself, he doesn't even hesitate-- and that hits Richie like a mac truck, all at once remembering how truly long it had been since he'd gotten to _mark_ Eddie-- and he'd never gotten to mark his neck _at all_.

Richie pulls back when that little factoid hits him square in the gut, and it's fucking embarrassing how hard his cock jerks, almost slotting perfectly into the crack of Eddie's ass, where he'd been systematically rutting into him during their kiss. Staring at the red mark mottled onto Eddie's throat, Richie looks absolutely speechless for a few seconds, leaving them both hanging in suspense and apprehension.

"I didn't ask," Richie says stupidly, completely without thinking, "Is-- is it okay if I--??" he gestures with his chin, like he doesn't already know the answer. Maybe he just wants to hear Eddie say it.

"Yeah," Eddie says, equally struck dumb, his lips shiny and red from the abuse they'd just suffered. He shakes himself back to reality and ammends, "You don't have to ask, idiot. You could turn me ass up over your lap and make me lick the floor and I'd fucking do it you dumb-- shut up and just fucking-- _fuck_ _me­_."

He feels sloppy, he feels _slutty_ , even. He feels like a kid again, his whole body buzzing with an energy he hasn't felt since before Richie left Derry. He feels alive for the first time in fucking decades, like he could spring up off Richie's lap and take a sprint around the New York block without shoes on in the snow. He feels fucking unstoppable. 

It's sad to realize how truly lackluster his sex life had been since he and Richie split. And sadder still to realize that he didn't even _know_ it was lackluster, he just thought... that's what sex was like. He couldn't remember having sex with anyone else, so he didn't have anything to compare it to. But now looking back on it, with his entire body on fucking fire and aching for the man under him, he can't even believe he ever thought sex with Myra was fulfilling. 

After a quick mental note to delve into _that_ particular fantasy at a later date, the idea of Richie not having to _ask_ sticking into the back of his mind like a knife, he eagerly does precisely what he's told. Eddie wants to be fucked? Oh, Richie can _fuck_ him. Hands raising from Eddie's ass, they're gone for only a moment before he's shoving Eddie's pants down in the back, the warm, sweltering air from the fireplace helping at least make the transition more smooth so he wasn't shocked with the cold of his apartment.

Shoving his pants down to the middle of Eddie's thighs so his cock springs up towards his belly, Richie's hands take their place against his ass again, fingers kneading the well-worn skin before slipping down and in, until the tips of his fingers are settled between the warm cleft of his perfect ass and Richie opens Eddie to the empty room. He can feel the warmth seeping from Eddie's core, can still smell his soap as he realizes, belatedly, that Eddie is awfully _wet_ for someone who hadn't played with himself beforehand. And with a nauseatingly hot turn of his stomach, Richie realizes that Eddie _definitely_ played with himself. In his shower. Just now. 

As if he needed more encouragement. Leaning forward, Richie claims Eddie's mouth in another kiss, this one focusing more on teeth than tongue, biting at Eddie's lip until he can feel it swell and kissing it gently as an apology. Only then does he move on, back to pressing demanding kisses across Eddie's jaw and into his neck, until he finds another perfect expanse of skin to sink his teeth into, and then he does that with vigor, until he tastes copper and nearly feels Eddie's skin break under his teeth.

"Gonna fuck you through the fucking floor, Kaspbrak," Richie growls, two fingers dipping into Eddie's crack and pressing heavily into the taut skin between his balls and hole, grinding into the spot he knows is just on the other side, "Gonna make you cum so much you don't remember where you fucking are, you want that?" his voice is a purr. Richie licks a long, wet stripe up Eddie's neck, ending at his ear. He bites at his lobe. "Just you, and me, and my fucking-- cock in your perfect little..."

He loses the thread a bit there. Can you blame him? The way Eddie is grinding against him is sinful, making Richie pent-up and stupid. It was a miracle he could still string words together.

"Fuck--" Eddie's voice is a tightly-held grit up in his nose, an old habit held from youth, a subconscious thought that sex is supposed to be quiet. It always has been for him, up until now-- and it's only now that he's realizing that idea came from the fact that he and Richie used to fool around all over Derry, and not from Catholic guilt like he'd always assumed. 

But he doesn't _need_ to be quiet now, they're alone in Richie's apartment-- fuck, in _their_ apartment, because he lives here now too, even if he's only been here for like an hour. This is _his_ home, too, and he doesn't need to be quiet. 

"Yeah, I want that, dumbshit," he groans, dropping his forehead to Richie's shoulder, angling his ass out against the man's hands. There was a part of him that was afraid this would be awkward or unpleasant or weird because of how long it's been since Richie had his hands on him, but it was an irrational fear. There was never going to be a world where this wasn't like riding a fucking bike, where picking up right where they left off wasn't the only option. It feels like no time at all has passed-- and fuck, even his dick is so hard it's actually standing upright between his thighs. He can't even remember the last time it did that. 

He turns his mouth to the side of Richie's neck, deciding to return the favor. If people were going to be able to tell by looking at him that he's sexually active, he's going to make sure the same is true for Richie. He's going to give his makeup people hell trying to cover bruises that Richie's going to insist he should just wear on stage like a badge of honor. His mouth seals over Richie's pulse point and he sucks, dragging his tongue over the skin as his cock jumps and bobs between his legs that have just started to quiver, thanks to Richie's attention to his perineum. 

"Fuuuck, Eddie," While the other man seems to struggle with his volume, Richie seems to not have that issue. He's never really had it, never really been a loud lover naturally, but when he wants to express something he's certainly never made a problem of it, and now is one of those times. His nose trails down Eddie's neck as the older man bites into his throat, clearly just as ravenous as he was himself. Nice to be wanted as much as you wanted someone else, but distracting as all hell when the only thing you wanted to do was devour the object of your affections, whole.

Another irritable shove, as well as petulant kick from one of Richie's legs, has Eddie's shitty, fucking silkass pants down at his knees, then below, and even then it's not enough. Arms raising to wrap strongly around Eddie's waist, Richie flips them until it's Eddie's back sinks into the sofa, and Richie is looming over him. He's already arranging Eddie's legs to wind around his hips.

"Pretty sure if you want me to fuck you through the floor you shouldn't be calling me names, Ed- _war_ -do," Richie enjoys stretching his name out too much, grinning toothily at Eddie's annoyed expression he's given in return, before leaning forward and kissing his lips again, unable to help himself. 

Personally, he didn't mind the hickies at all. He was a big fan of it, actually. Loved the look of them on Eddie, didn't give enough of a shit about himself to care what he looked like, trash-fire, slut, or whatever anyone wanted to call him-- so if Eddie wanted to play? By all means, let the poor man. As far as Richie was concerned, Eddie had just spent 30 years in prison, basically. A hetero prison, the worst kind.

Richie's hands drag up and down Eddie's newly bare thighs, pants already discarded somewhere on the ground. His hands are rough, nails biting into the pale, perfect skin of Eddie's legs, "You haven't changed at all, you know that?" He asks, grinning. He doesn't sound disappointed, "At all."

"Fuck you, I've got-- _some_ chest hair now," Eddie argues. It's really not much, he never did hit that peak of masculinity like other men in his life, the thick hair never actually came. But he has a little bit in the middle of his chest, and on his forearms and calves, and even a little bit at the base of his dick, now. It could be better... but he knows from experience it could be worse, too. At least he's not fucking slick like a dolphin anymore. 

The sofa isn't exactly comfortable, the cushions are a little stiff, and Eddie has to wonder how much time Richie has actually spent on any of the furniture in his apartment. It all seems so barren, so clinical. He's determined to inject some warmth into it at any cost, even if he has to completely strip the place and start over. According to Richie he's got the funds for it. 

Jesus, how gay _is he_ that he's laying here thinking of _interior design_ while Richie is kneeling between his legs? He arches up to grab him by the neck and give him another hard kiss, chasing those embarrassing thoughts away. 

It's clear Richie has something smart to say by the expression on his face, but it's equally as clear that he has no problem stifling it in order to get another kiss from the hungry, petulant Eddie. He's laughing when it finishes, leaning forward to press their foreheads together as he pulls away panting, "So _testy_ , Mr. Kaspbrak," Richie croons, placing deep, heavy kisses to his lips before he has a chance to argue, and continuing to kiss him until they're both flushed faced and gasping for air. 

Swallowing very deliberately, his adam's apple bobs as he devours Eddie's mouth for the umpteenth time, unable to keep track amongst the heady petting and the flipping and the flurry of action that overwhelmed them both. When he finally pulls away, both of their mouths are bruised and chapped with kisses, "Try and manage your breathing, bud. We're just getting started," He promises, and just like that, he's gone from Eddie's grasp.

He slides down Eddie's body, leaving a trail of kisses wherever he passes. He boldly presses one to the tinge of scar peeking out of the collar of his shirt, and when he can hear, and feel the way Eddie's body goes tight and he catches his breath, Richie looks up to catch his eye. There's nothing in it but adoration and hunger, not a lick of sympathy, or sorrow, or mourning-- he still wanted Eddie as much as the very first time they kissed, scar or no scar.

Richie lingers at Eddie's ribs, at his belly button, then his hips, until finally-- skipping over his cock, of course, but not without an approving hum and a blown breath of air ghosting over the tip-- Richie's knees hit the floor in front of Eddie and he finds himself face to face with the thighs he's been half-dreaming about for thirty fucking years. The expression on his face is hard to read. It almost looks like it's a religious experience for him. He buries his nose into the silken skin of his inner thigh with a deep, even huff of breath, hands dragging up the skin just to feel it against his fingers. He doesn't dare kiss. Or bite. Not yet. Not until it was time--

And for now Richie just wanted to adore him, stubble leaving red patches where he burnt Eddie's thighs, tongue following with with passes of saliva, and his fingers kneading, kneading, grabbing his thighs and spreading him open and letting Richie have access to the softest parts of him-- his inner thighs, the delicate skin between his hip and his leg, the sensitive skin that made Eddie's cock jump when he buries is nose in it and takes a deep breath, just to _smell_ him again.

"Jesus... fuck... oh shit--" Eddie's head hooks over the back of the sofa, his mouth gone completely dry. He remembers Richie's obsession with his thighs when they were young, too-- it's the whole reason he got sent to bible camp that one summer. He remembers having to lie to his mother about masturbating too much or something... the details are lost on him, and he doesn't want to think about it too hard anyway right now, not while Richie's head is between his thighs. 

But he remembers the way it made him _feel_ , even back then. The way the bruises would always ache, and how he stopped wearing his favorite shorts for years just so Richie had the freedom to mark his thighs a hundred times over, painting his legs with his lips and tongue until he looked like a fucking dalmatian. He remembers how he would think of Richie every time his thighs rubbed together, every time he sat down and they would throb or pinch-- he remembers getting hard in the shower nearly every fucking time he got to see them. 

And looking down at his thighs now, they look incredibly bare. It almost hurts in his chest to see how barren they are, in fact. He can't help but picture how they would look like with a couple dozen hickies in every shade of the bruise rainbow, from bright red to deep purple to faint greyish-yellow, begging to be refreshed-- jesus, his dick just oozes like a faucet when he thinks about it. 

"Fuck, Richie, come on," he groans, digging one hand into Richie's hair, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. "Just-- give it to me, you fucking cocktease--"

And Jesus fucking Christ as their savior, he does. Tipping forward with the last syllable of Eddie's pathetically demanding moan, Richie doesn't have it in him to play coy anymore, to act like he didn't want this just as much as Eddie did. Richie's lips find Eddie's thighs and it's like the entire universe aligns for that moment, Richie dragging his lips and nose across his tender skin like a fucking priest in front of his god, then lavishing Eddie's thighs with kisses. 

They're just kisses to start, but there are certainly a _lot_ of them. He trails kisses up and down the length of both legs, behind both knees, across the peaks of them both. Anything done to one is done to the other. He takes his time, demanding symmetry, choosing not to pick favorites even as he can feel Eddie above him, twitching and shuddering and gasping like a fish out of water, each noise going straight to Richie's dick and making him groan. It only really encourages Richie's slow, steady devouring of the smaller man, though.

Dragging his cheek against Eddie's thigh until it turns a brilliant red, he pulls back to admire his work, thumbs smoothing over the irritated skin. "That's new, huh? Beard burn," Richie supplies helpfully, like Eddie might not know what it is, "Wanna see if you like it?" And he'd waited long enough, no time for more-- Richie places a kiss onto the hot, red skin his beard had agitated, and then follows it with his teeth, kiss deepening into a hungry suck, then bite, his cheeks going hollow as he tastes Eddie for the first time in 30 years, and it was every bit as good as he remembered. Richie moans, hungry for more as he begins his onslaught of Eddie's poor thighs.

Eddie's stomach heaves with his quick, shallow breathing when Richie finally breaks the seal on 3 decades of unfulfilling sex, giving him the one thing he didn't even know he was missing enough to actively miss it. But feeling Richie's teeth sink into his leg reminds him exactly how much he had been missing out on. 

In a rush, Eddie remembers everything else he'd been missing out on, too. All the little things Richie used to do to him, _for_ him. He remembers how worshipfully Richie would eat his ass, he remembers the way he would help Eddie deep throat his cock by fisting his hair, he remembers the fucking soapy hand jobs Eddie would give him every time before he'd go down on him-- how they managed to fuck as often as they did when they were kids, when they both had parents who would crucify them alive if they knew, he doesn't know. Some kind of cosmic luck. 

"Oh FUCK--" he whines when Richie finally releases the first mark with a filthy pop, and all the blood rushes back into the abused area with a satisfying sting and burn. He looks down at the blood red mark and his cock visibly jumps right in front of Richie's face as another thick dribble of pre slides down the underside of his cock and over his perineum. 

And then Richie's mouth is on another part of his thigh, and the process starts all over. Eddie whines in his throat, an embarrassing and involuntary noise, and both of his hands dig into Richie's hair. It's amazing how desperate just a little sucking on his inner thigh can make him feel, but he honestly feels like he's about to fucking pass out thanks to his lover's tongue and teeth on his leg. He realizes that now he could actually walk around in shorts with his bruises on full display inside the apartment-- and he's already making a mental note to see if he can find a pair of shorts that kind of look like the red ones he used to wear that made Richie go fucking feral. 

"Perfect," Richie mutters as he finish another hickey with another wet noise. He places a third, then a fourth, each time punctuating his work with another adoring whisper of the word 'perfect', like he couldn't get enough of Eddie. Judging by the way he was consuming the man, it didn't actually seem possible. The familiar array of purple, red, and yellow begins to pepper Eddie's skin. His teeth grow harder, his biting hungrier, the hands spreading Eddie's thighs push them further apart until the deep burn of a stretch settles across Eddie's pelvic floor, and any words that weren't encouragement were promptly disregarded, overshadowed by the feel of those hands in his hair for the first time in too fucking long.

With a bold turn of his head and without warning, Richie licks one long, flat stripe up the length of Eddie's cock. He collects the precum that had begun to leave a wet spot on his leather sofa, tongue delving between Eddie's cheeks and then up, tracing the thick path of salty pre up the seam of his balls, up the heavy vein along the underside of his cock that pulses and jerks with Richie's tongue-- and he seals the trip with a kiss and another heated look up at Eddie, the fingers still holding his thighs apart squeezing hard, hard enough to bruise.

If Eddie's thighs were pale and pristine before, it's hard to look at them now and see it. They're worn now, used and defiled and debauched by Richie's teeth. There are bruises in the shape of his mouth, fingerprints across his hips-- and it still doesn't look like enough, even with the pretty backdrop of agitated red Richie left everywhere he went, thanks to the stubble he keeps perfectly just-so. It was never supposed to be for this, mostly because he didn't give enough of a shit to shave, but damn if this wasn't a happy side effect.

"Did you miss me?" Richie asks, even though he already knows the answer in his gut. It wasn't even a doubt, not even a sliver of apprehension. Did Eddie _miss him_. Of fucking _course_ he had. His cock was standing at perfect attention, his face was flushed. His sofa had never seen so much action, and the little ways Eddie was twisting and writhing were almost too much for him to bear. Sitting up on his knees, he leans over Eddie, framing him with an arm.

One finger, just one, drags up the length of Eddie's cock, following the path his tongue had just taken. It twitches under his finger, balls tightening, dribbling pre like a horny teen-- pre which Richie promptly smears into Eddie's shirt, as that finger pushes his cock against his belly and it spreads across the thin, clingy cotton.

Richie just holds it there for a beat, watching Eddie's cock twitch, watching his entire body surge and pulse like he wanted to follow his instinct and fuck like a goddamn animal. It takes Richie's breath away. He licks his lips, swallowing, "Tell me how much," He whispers, looking down at Eddie like he was a meal. Richie could feel his stomach growling, his mouth watering. He refrained from devouring Eddie whole, but only barely.

"God you're a fucking-- asshole--" Eddie groans, the leather of the sofa creaking as he wraps both his hands around the edge of a cushion and squeezes for dear life. His chest is heaving, an ache starting up in his lower back that he might regret tomorrow but can't be assed enough to actually move to alleviate. "Like you need the fuckin' ego boost." 

Truthfully, Eddie's just afraid that if he actually starts talking about how much he missed Richie, he'd just start crying. A hitched breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob catches in the back of his throat just at the thought, and he arches his back, angling his hips up closer to Richie, where his thighs have just started to shake like they no longer have the strength to hold him up. If he tried to stand, they probably wouldn't. 

"Just-- jesus fucking christ, Richie," his voice is pitifully whiny, his cock twitching under his fingers. "I haven't had good sex since you left, is that what you wanna hear? Don't make me get mushy on you, I'll make this so gross your dick will go soft."

Somehow Richie severely doubts that Eddie could do anything at this point that would lessen the throbbing in his jeans, his own cock heavy and twitching, grinding uncomfortably against the fly of his pants and begging for release. He doesn't, of course he doesn't, because waiting was always half of the fun with Richie-- it really was more proof of anything else: he wasn't going anywhere. 

But mercy was something he could show, at the very least. Hands slip under Eddie's ass, and his arms shift to hold the weight of Eddie's thighs in his hands, so their poor trembling could stop, at the very least. Lifting Eddie to the point where he was almost folded in half onto himself, Richie leans forward to crowd his space. His breath is hot on Eddie's cock, his fingers hard, and without any sort of warning or hesitation, Richie dips his head and takes Eddie's cock into his mouth. 

It's every bit as perfect as he remembers. Salty, heavy and earthy, it tastes like Eddie's throat after a long day outside in the sun. It tastes like Eddie's fingers when Richie steals a chance to suck on them in less-than private circumstances. He tastes like himself, masculine and strong, and Richie moans even as he buries himself into Eddie's crotch to the root, until his nose is dragging through the tightly manicured curls at the root and he can feel Eddie's cock twitching in the back of his throat.

Eddie shouts, back arching up sharply, thighs battling Richie's hold on them to try and close around his ears and failing the fight. He tries to curl up, tries to wrap Richie's head up in all of his limbs-- but with the larger man's grip on his legs all he can do is grab him by the hair with both hands and grind up shallowly into his mouth. 

"Jesus FUCK--" his voice echoes in the apartment as pleasure jackhammers up into his gut, his stomach going tense and tight. It's almost too much, after so many years of just so-so pleasure, this kind feels like **too much**. There's that old guilt coming back that tells him if anything feels this good it _has to_ be a sin. But Eddie's already bound for hell. He's stabbed a man and helped kill a fucking alien clown demon-- a blow job isn't going to send him to a worse ring of hell at this point. His toes curl and he throws his head back with a pathetic whine, as he tries again to buck up higher into Richie's mouth with no avail. 

"Please-- please please please--" he begs, just for the sake of it, his mouth running a stream of incoherent babbling like a skipping record, and he realizes how embarrassingly close he is already. Then again, Richie had promised to make him cum so many times he forgot where he was. He can't remember the last time he got a blow job-- Myra certainly never went down on him. Which was fair, he didn't really go down on her either. They never got very creative in the bedroom, except for-- oh god, _stop_ _thinking about Myra_. He opens his eyes instead to look down at Richie, to remind himself where he is and who's touching him, but the vision of Richie's lips around his cock does him in all at once, and like a fucking teenager, he cums with a broken wail of "Oh FUCK-- sorry!"

Surprise cuts through the concentration knit tight between Richie's brows, but he licks Eddie clean, ever the gentleman. When he pulls back he's laughing, though, coughing and wiping his mouth as thick saliva from the back of his throat wets his lips and threatens to dribble down his chin. Richie's eyes are wrinkled with mirth, his smile as bright and beaming as ever, and as he settles Eddie's hips back down onto the couch, he leans back on his heels, still coughing, still laughing. Apparently he can't decide which one he wants to do more.

"You _apologized_ ," Richie wheezes. It's not as funny as his laughter would have him to believe, definitely isn't funny enough to warrant the brightness in Richie's eyes from unshed tears. It's just a little premature ejaculation, all guys go through it. For all Richie knows, age robbed Eddie of whatever control he managed to develop over the years. But if Richie thought about it _really_ hard, he'd realize that he'd never known Eddie to be the master of his own cock, and Richie _really_ liked making him cum. 

He can't help himself when he leans back over the length of Eddie's body, covering that smaller body with his own and peppering kisses across Eddie's cheeks and down his throat. He knew Eddie didn't like kissing him after he'd gone down on him, but Richie takes the chance anyway, nuzzling into Eddie's cheek with his nose and then pressing a kiss to his lips shortly after. Richie is warm like a fucking furnace, heat coming off of him in waves as the thick bulge of his cock grinds shallowly into Eddie's hip. 

A low, rumbling hum, a satisfied smile, and Richie looks up at Eddie again, a smile on his lips that could be considered impish-- "Ready for round two?"

Petulantly, Eddie turns his face away from Richie when he kisses him after sucking him off-- but it's better than if Richie had just eaten him out, at least. Not wanting Richie to think his touch is unwelcome, he unclamps his hand from the edge of the couch cushion and reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Richie's neck. 

"You're a fucking animal," he croaks, his dick twitching against his hip as it slowly softens. "I'm not 18 anymore, Trashmouth, you're gonna have to give me a minute. And if I don't lay down flat my back's gonna have a conniption." 

His complaining is honestly a breath of fresh air, for Richie. It's so familiar, reminds him so much of the way Eddie was when they were kids. He really hasn't changed, he might have gotten older, he might have a few more lines in his face and he might be twice as buff as he used to be-- but he's still the same whiny, bitchy, bossy Eddie Kaspbrak.

Realizing that, as usual, Richie hadn't so much as unbuttoned his jeans, Eddie reaches down and pops the button of Richie's fly, and while he's down there, his knuckles brush against the underside of the modest paunch Richie had developed with age. He'd always been so stick-thin when they were kids, long and rangey and nearly boney-- it was always Eddie who carried a little softness around his belly, hips and thighs. 

A shock of heat goes through Eddie's spent body as his attention swiftly shifts from Richie's dick to his stomach, and he pushes the man's shirt up and out of the way so he can lay both of his palms against the man's belly. Eddie has always known he's been attracted to people with a little more meat on their bones than the average person. He's not willing to scrutinize it too deeply or question where it started, lest he spiral down an Oedipus-style existential crisis, he just lets himself enjoy it for what it is, as he wordlessly, worshipfully sinks his fingers into Richie's love handle and _squeezes_. 

Maybe it's old age causing his insecurity, but Richie squirms, hips and body turning to try and curl away to stop the squeeze. It's his turn to blush now, his turn to look embarrassed and overwhelmed at even the slightest touch Eddie might bestow upon him. It's a bit different, though, considering this was Eddie groping his sides like they were tits at a co-ed sleepover for the first time. 

"Come on, man, seriously," he grouses, squirming and holding a hand out to try and shove Eddie back, "What, you wanna brag that you're ripped as fuck and I ended up with a goddamn-- _gut_ , come on--" It feels so weird, so surreal. It's a bit like going back in time. Touching like this, playing and laughing and teasing and goading like this, it doesn't feel like 30 years had passed. 

It puts them in a new limbo. Do they acknowledge the time they spent together and actively try to make up for it? Or do they just take this sunshine of recaptured youth and just... go for it? Richie, personally, has always been a really big advocate of _going for it._ Looking back was never his strong suit as a kid. Without his memories he'd been entirely selfless, a shell of himself. He knew who he was, but he didn't know _what_ he was. He didn't know a foundational part of himself that made him able to smile, to laugh, to groan and grab Eddie's arms and pin him to the couch, for no other reason than to shove his own shirt up so Richie can begin kissing across his belly and up that gnarly, mean scar.

He doesn't comment on it. He doesn't have to. They both know what they lost that day, how much more they could have lost, and Richie plans on making damn sure that thought is as heavily expunged from both of their memories as possible. At least he has the decency to make it fair. Richie leans to rip his shirt off, both black undershirt and hideously-printed over shirt, until him and his soft dadbod is just out in all its glory, and Richie can focusing on systematically pulling Eddie's off, too.

"I wasn't bragging," Eddie says breathlessly, lifting his arms over his head so Richie can pull his shirt off. It still twinges just a little bit in the middle of his chest to do it, but it fades quickly. He has to wonder if it'll just always hurt a little bit, if that's something he'll just have to get used to. 

His eyes roam hungrily over Richie's body, the way his soft belly and sides roll over the waistband of his jeans-- kind of like Eddie's, but notably moreso. He's got curves on his waist and hips, and it makes Eddie's dick give another twitch of interest, where it's laid across his thigh. He reaches out to touch him again, sinking one hand into the underside of Richie's belly with a full-handed squeeze, and the way his skin gives way under the pressure of Eddie's hand makes him groan shamelessly. 

"I like it," he admits, sounding almost like he's in pain. "Richie, shut up, I _like it_ , don't look at me like that. I like it, okay? Can't a guy like the sight of his own dumbass boyfriend shirtless? You like looking at _me_."

He doesn't just like looking at Richie, though. He'd been vaguely aware of how comfortable Richie was to hug or lean back against, but actually getting to _see it,_ to see the way his sides pinch and roll when he shifts, makes his stomach feel like it's full of lava. 

It's enough of an insistence that it makes Richie leans back on his heels, stretching out like an animal at the zoo in a beam of sunlight. With one arm propped on the sleek, modern coffee table behind him, he's cast in a brilliant golden-orange glow that bathes him in a holy, surreal cast. He was definitely not nearly as... Adonis-like as he had been when he was younger. 

Growing up he'd been all hollow cheeks and sharp features, sharp eyes that belied a sharper tongue. His hair was thick and curly and shaggy and he fully took advantage of it, along with his wicked-fast metabolism. It seemed now, in his old age, that had mostly melted away. He was still pale, but certainly paler now that he didn't have the excuse of childhood summers spent outside to get him tanned. The hair across his belly and fluffed across his chest isn't thick, but it is dark, and it does give him a bit of depth. Otherwise, he's gone soft. The angles in his face now are only thanks to his jawline, his hairline receding. There's no sinew or bone to worry about when it comes to whether Richie Tozier could take a hit, because as an adult he definitely could-- and he looked like he _has_ at some point.

"You know, Eddie," Richie's voice goes low, watching him through his thick lashes, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a crush on me." He keeps his face steady for the bit, but judging by the wobbly way he has to bite down on his own cheek, it was a losing game.

"Shut up, you're fucking gay," Eddie says, and he sits up off the couch to grab Richie by the shoulders and pull. He yanks Richie up onto the couch and then down onto his back, and settles in his lap, buck nude and yet surprisingly not uncomfortable at all. It feels right being naked with Richie, _for_ Richie, in a way they could rarely even indulge in as kids, when there was so often the threat of being caught. 

But like this, safe in their home, Eddie could be naked _all the time_ and it wouldn't matter. Well, except for the fact that it would drive Richie absolutely insane-- but that might be all the more reason to do it. He leans out over the other man, letting his naked thighs squeeze around his sides, just to watch the way it makes his stomach bunch up in the middle. He rakes his hands down Richie's chest and belly, and gives his love handles another little squeeze. 

He doesn't need to go into detail about how wild Richie's body is making him, his own body says everything he needs to say for him, his dick filling out again just from groping Richie like an uncertain virgin on prom night. He sighs, reverent and soft, as his hands find Richie's chest and squeezes him there, too. He looks like he's having an out of body experience, his eyes are soft and faraway as he feels Richie up, his hands sliding over his shoulders and down his arms, guiding his hands to Eddie's hips. 

Richie always had big hands, especially compared to Eddie. Eddie had been so small when he was young, he didn't even hit 5'9 until the summer when he was 19, an extremely late bloomer-- but while he might have filled out finally with broader shoulders and bigger hands, Richie's hands still feel _big_ on his hips. They're harder than his own hands, with dark hair on his knobby knuckles, and enough crookedness to know that he'd broken a finger or two in his time. Eddie's hands are baby soft and pale as they slide back up Richie's arms to brace on his shoulders-- and then he starts to grind his hips down over the neglected bulge in the front of Richie's jeans. 

"Remember when I made you cream your jeans in the arcade?" he's grinning now, all up to one side, insufferably full of himself. "It was _just_ like this..." he slots the tent of Richie's cock between his cheeks and rocks his hips down against it without mercy. 

All the breath expels from Richie's lungs and through his teeth like he was kicked by a horse, and immediately his hands land on Eddie's hips and squeeze, "Jeeeeeesus fucking Christ, Kaspbrak, if you wanna fucking kill me just use a fucking knife--" He can only keep his head held up at attention for so long before it tips back, and Richie is forced to guide Eddie across his lap on touch alone.

They both know it's Eddie doing the work, though. It's always Eddie doing the work whenever he was feeling particularly vindictive. Richie had to wonder how much trouble he was in now, though. Before, he would usually just initiate, initiate, initiate to get ahead. After all, if he fucked Eddie out before he could regain a coherent thought, then there was never a chance he could get cocky and start thinking clearly. But they were adults now, with adult refractory periods, and the opportunity to fuck Eddie senseless was lower now than ever before. Which is how they got here. Richie's head tilted back until it hits the arm rest, eyes wide and open and staring sightless at the ceiling, mouth opening and closing without speaking while his adam's apple bobs in his throat.

"Oooooooooh fuck, oooooh shit, _fuck_ you're a fucking piece of shit... fuck... _fuck_ , Eddie, you fucking _bitch_ , are you fucking-- going to grind me off you little bastard? Really? _Seriously?"_ It's hard to take anything Richie says seriously, or even out of anger, considering how pink his cheeks were and how truly unfocused his eyes were as he offers no argument at all to being mounted and ground on like a teenager at the Winter Formal.

"Unless you think you can stop me," Eddie braces one hand at the base of Richie's neck, not to choke as much as to collar. He doesn't squeeze or try to cut off Richie's ability to breathe, but he certainly makes the pressure of his hand known there as he rolls his hips in a deep grind over Richie's cock. 

He's surprised even with himself that he's still "got it." He would have thought he'd forget how to do this by now, considering how very little gyrating he's done in the last 30 years, but muscle memory kicks in and his spine works in snakelike coils as he works his hips down over his lover. He feels goddamn _powerful_ on top of Richie, and is reminded of all those times (though they came few and far between) that he was able to wrest control away from Richie for a brief moment, long enough for him to return the goddamn favor once in a while. 

Though Eddie never did get to the bottom of why Richie was so sheepish about having the tables turned on him, because lord knows they never _talked_ about their insecurities when they were boys, looking back on it through adult eyes tells a new story. A story about a relentless boy who wanted attention at all costs, who thought even negative attention was better than no attention, but who withered when the spotlight was finally on him. When he was a boy, Eddie was content to just let it lie, but as an adult, he knows better. He's not going to let Richie stop him from loving him. 

Eddie can feel the way Richie's breath catches in his throat, especially with his hand on him like this, and it's hard to tell whether it's because of Eddie's hand, or if his breath was just doing that on its own. All it takes is one look at Richie's face and it was easy to see that, whatever the cause, Eddie had him right where he wanted him-- because Richie sure as shit wasn't looking anywhere but directly at Eddie now, eyes wide and a little overblown, normally slate-gray eyes dark with hunger.

Beneath him, Richie's chest heaves. His fingers had gone slack a while ago, content to hold on but not to demand, as his cock twitches hungrily in his pants. When was the last time he'd been with someone like this? When was the last time he'd _allowed_ himself to be with someone like this? Richie had just spent the last 27 years trying to figure out why even gay sex left him feeling unfulfilled, and he realizes now _that_ this was what he'd been missing. He'd been missing the connection, the intensity. He'd been missing Eddie.

There's nothing sweet or serene about the way Eddie is grinding into him. He's grinding into Richie's cock like he's trying to milk him for all he's got. Their eyes meet and lock and hold, neither side willing to break the gaze that sends adrenaline pulsing thickly through Richie's veins. 

"I wanna fuck you," Richie says reverently, almost like he's offering himself to a God. Judging from the way he's looking at Eddie, he really might think he is; "I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you. I'm gonna fuck the _shit_ out of you, I'm gonna--" and with another particularly hard grind of Eddie's hips that leads to another loud moan from Richie, his head falls back again, openly moaning, enough to fill the room.

There's a part of Eddie that thinks they're supposed to be in the bedroom, surrounded by candles or some shit, to mark the occasion, like they're supposed to be romantic and soft. This is their first time together in 30 years, surely it's supposed to be... Hallmark. But he realizes almost as soon as he thinks it that honestly-- this is ­really how it _should_ be, how it always _was_ for them. This is the most appropriate way they could have reunited, it wouldn't have been like them at all if they fucked on a bed of rose petals, that's how other people fuck, not them. It's a combination of nostalgia and joy and deep-bellied arousal that has him throwing his head back and _laughing_. 

"Yeah? Is that what you're gonna do big guy?" he sneers, grinning like a dope. It's fucking perfect, it feels so right to be goading each other, insulting one another, with all the love in the world in their voices, just like before. It's dizzying, how much it feels like no time at all has passed, he can feel the years melting away from him as his hand raises from Richie's throat to grab him by the jaw, instead. "How are you gonna do that flat on your back cumming in your jeans like a preteen?"

It's the goading that bites Eddie in the end, and he really should have seen it coming. But this time, like the times before it all those years before it, it's too little too late-- Richie squeezes his eyes shut, on the brink of ruining his own goddamn favorite jeans, until he manages to tighten his grip on Eddie's hips, pulling him down into his lap. Rough hands curl around, until they're cupping the delicate skin of his inner thigh, and he can grasp and knead and bruise as easily as he wished. He's still close, holy fuck is he _close_ , there's something about being under Eddie's thumb that makes him want to cum, in a way he can't really explain.

"Bold fucking words for a piece of shit-- that got himself-- _fuck_ \-- fucking lubed up in the fucking shower. For all I know you're on number fucking... _three_ by now--" Richie growls. As if to punctuate his point, too, his hands slide further under Eddie's thighs, until his thumbs can dip forward to delve into the warmth of Eddie's crack, hands pulling Eddie closer and closer forward until he can grind the tips of his thumbs into Eddie's hole, desperately hoping to break Eddie down before he was.

Eddie gasps raggedly when Richie practically sticks a finger in without warning, his hole instantly tightening up and clenching at the stimulation. He catches himself on Richie's shoulders with both hands, a thrill shooting up through his spine. God, he's wanted Richie to touch him again for so fucking long, and it hits him hard enough to wind him every time he puts his hands on him. 

"I didn't _lube up_ , jackass, I was _cleaning out,_ " he grits his teeth, his head hanging between his shoulders as he pants unevenly. "For _you_ , by the way, so you're-- _welcome_ \-- oh jesus christ." He can't think when Richie's fingers are grinding into his hole, he can't fucking talk, he can barely even breathe. It's not fair, just when he was getting the upper hand-- he's still physically on top of Richie and all it takes is a couple goddamn fingers to make the whole house of cards come down. 

"Oh, that's not a problem," Richie purrs. He's regaining more strength by the minute, by the second, every moment stolen from Eddie more fuel for his own fire. Every second without the perfect cleft of his perfect ass hugging Richie's cock adds more to his resolve, until Richie moves one hand altogether, using it to pat awkwardly at the table behind him. 

His other thumb continues to fuck shallowly past the rim of muscle that's clenched so tight it clearly hasn't been touched in 30 years, and Richie wonders if maybe they should be taking it slower. But just as soon as that thought came, it ended, Richie managing to extract a small bottle of lube from the small drawer in the table. Handy that Richie had it there. Probably a little strange, too, but he wouldn't talk about it.

The bottle practically echoes when Richie pops it, and that sound alone makes Richie's entire body raise with goosebumps in response, "So what was that you were saying about... me and being a preteen?" Richie asks conversationally as he smooths a thick layer of lubricant across his fingers, then slips that hand between his legs, his ring finger sliding entirely into Eddie's tight little hole without him even pushing.

"Holy shit--" Eddie's voice raises up an embarrassing octave when Richie just goes ahead and _does it_ , planting a finger all the way inside him. He swear he remembers Richie's fingers being smaller-- or maybe it's just that they weren't quite so thick-- but now just a single finger has Eddie's entire spine turning to jello. His hand shoots out to grab the back of the couch so loud that it slaps against the leather, and a twinge in his back warns him that he's going way too boneless too fast. 

His cock leaps, standing up within seconds, and he grits his teeth, tipping his head back as he fights for some control-- and loses the fight just as quickly. It feels too fucking good, it feels electric having a finger inside him again after so long. His own fingers had been clinical in the shower, they didn't even compare. 

"You fucking dweeb-- flip me over," Eddie is demanding about it, it's not _begging_ , thank you very much. "You can't even-- get fucking leverage from this angle, weak-ass-- come _on_ \--"

Richie could have stifled his laugh, but he actively chooses not to, especially when Eddie is so eager to try and get prissy, like he had literally any place to speak from at all. As if Richie hadn't just been pinned to the couch without Eddie even lifting so much as his pinkie finger. He _ought_ to be breathless at this, he ought to be reacting as viscerally as he was... and Eddie sneering demands at him was his version of 'hot and flustered and ready to go'. So he follows instructions. Easy enough. Lifting onto his knees, Richie turns Eddie and helps set himself stomach-down on the sofa, close enough for both elbows to rest against the uncomfortable leather, ass in the air. It's a nice view, made nicer by nearly half a year's hard, grueling work and a lifetime of careful dieting. It was a life Richie had never led, their physiques so much more different now than before. 

Problem was, now Eddie was face-down ass-up on his couch, and Richie.... was just a man. A _hungry_ man. Ravenous, really. And with such a meal before him, Richie was powerless to stop himself from leaning forward, spreading Eddie's perfect little ass apart with his hands, and burying his face into his slit, tongue flattening against his perineum as his cheeks go hollow, ignoring the vaguely-acrid taste of the lube. He'd only used a little bit. He would probably be fine.

"Rich-- you-- motherFUCK--" Eddie buries his face in the cushion to bite the leather. He's probably going to put permanent teeth marks in it. Fucking _good_ , he hopes they'll get a comfier couch than this, anyway. He hyperventilates through his nose, and his thighs immediately start to tremble as he tries to hold himself up. Richie's strong hands hooked around his hip bones help.

Twisting at the shoulder, Eddie reaches back to grab a fistful of Richie's dark hair, bucking back against his face. He knew it was only a matter of time before Richie went to town on him like this, but he didn't expect it this _soon_. He really should have known better, all of his memories point to Richie being fucking instatiable. 

"Richie-- Richie you _ass_ this isn't-- you-- I said-- oh my god..." Eddie's voice breaks off into a rich, throaty moan. He can't keep up the thread of annoyance, he can't be mad at all while Richie's tongue is plying him open. It's a sensation he never thought he'd feel again, one he didn't even realize he was missing, but Richie's mouth is bringing up all those old memories, burning across his skin like wildfire. His hand tightens in Richie's hair, and his hole clenches desperately. "At least use fingers _too_." 

Okay, now he _is_ begging. He can't help himself. Another rumbling laughter peels from Richie's chest, another smile curling on his lips as he pulls away with a wet sucking sound. "Would you believe me if I said this was an accident?" Richie dives back down to lick Eddie again, his tongue lapping deep at the sensitive back of his balls along the seam before dragging up again and fucking into his tight, little hole. 

He pulls away not a second later, "Honestly, this is kind of your fault," Richie goes back in for another deep lick. His fingers knead Eddie's ass in each hand, pulling him apart until his perfect asshole is open to the room now comfortably warm. Surely once they get into it it'll be much less so, but for now the fire is welcome on the sensitive skin of Eddie's ass. "Shouldn't've flaunted it in front of me, Kaspbrak," Richie continues to kiss and fuck into Eddie between sentences, only pulling away when he needs to breathe. "What am I supposed to do?" Another kiss, a moan when he feels Eddie's cock jerk and sees it drip precum onto his couch. "I'm only a man."

Richie leans away only long enough to grab the bottle of lube again from the table, slicking it between his fingers. He still wasnt't heartless, as much as he definitely sounds like it, especially now. "But, since you asked so nicely," He finally says, taking pity on Eddie as he slips that very same ring finger into Eddie, pressing forward slowly but steadily to the final knuckle. Only then does he give Eddie a second to adjust, with a steadying hand on his hip and a flurry of kisses across his lower back.

"FUCK fuckfuckfuckfuck--" Eddie presses his forehead to the couch and realizes that he's actually sweating. Maybe it's the fire, but most likely it's just because of Richie. He can't remember ever having sex intense enough to _sweat_ , but the backs of his knees and elbows are starting to get slick from where his joints have been pressed together, building heat as he grinds back against Richie. 

Again, he feels that finger in the back of his fucking throat. His cock jumps again, aching where it hangs between his legs, and Eddie whines like a dog. He doesn't even try to be quiet, there's no point, even though he knows Richie will probably have something snide to say about how much noise he's making, he doesn't want to go through the hassle of allocating even one part of his brain towards volume modulation. 

"Richie, Richie _please_ , Richie please, _please_ , oh my god Richie _please_ \--" he begs, grinding his forehead against the leather of the couch, his hole fluttering and clenching around that one teasing finger. It's too much, it's not enough, the pressure against his prostate nearly has him fucking _drooling._

For all of Richie's 'kindness' in actually fucking him with a finger, he doesn't waste any time in adding a second one. Maybe it was his own overeager haste, maybe it was Eddie's begging, which shamelessly went right to Richie's dick. Maybe it was the way Richie could feel how tight the rest of Eddie's body was, humming from adrenaline, vibrating every time Richie's lips found a hip, a vertebrae, or even the warm curve of his ass.

"Patience is a virtue, Eds," Richie chastises him condescendingly, not bothering to hide the smile from his voice or face. The smaller man is honestly talking so much and so loudly that he probably can't even hear Richie over his own pathetically desperate noise. 

"Don't call me Eds--" Eddie grits. 

Richie continues, anyway, "I couldn't fuck you right now anyway, baby, you're so fucking tight. You probably haven't put a single fucking thing up here since you forgot, have you? Probably didn't even remember you fucking liked it." 

That concept, apparently, is so funny that Richie actually snorts in derision, those two fingers beginning to fuck into Eddie, then withdraw, then fuck into him again. It starts a slow, steady pace that quickly speeds up, loosening Eddie and preparing him with a taste of what was to come. His fingers scissor inside of Eddie, twisting and fucking into him until a repulsively wet noise can be heard coming from the man bent in half over his couch.

At that, Richie leans forward, his fingers slowing in tempo until Richie settles himself at Eddie's side, laying longways so their heads were on a similar playing field... and the he begins to drive into Eddie in earnest, until the wet slap of Eddie's slowly loosening hole begins to underscore the entire area, "Dude, you hear how wet you are?" Richie asks breathlessly. He always loved to watch. This wasn't much different. The sound of Eddie's hole gets louder, suction raising to clutch at Richie's fingers as he pulls apart the man beneath him.

Eddie's chest drops to the cushion, and he curls his arms up around his head like he's trying to hide from falling debris, and he _sobs_ into the leather couch under him. He can't keep his voice down, he doesn't even think to try. He hasn't felt pleasure this intense in so long he thinks he might actually go insane. His cock is slicking the leather with a constant dribble of pre, every stroke of Richie's fingers inside him milking another heavy drip out of him. 

The feeling is un-fucking-describable. He feels _full_ , so full even with two fingers that he could swear Richie was already fucking him if he wasn't actually lying down beside him on the couch. The strength in his arm is formidable, intense enough that Eddie's hips bounce slightly with the force of his hand alone. He can feel tears forming in his eyes, and remembers suddenly how fucking smug it used to make Richie every time he got Eddie to feel so good he cried. Turns out that's not something he grew out of. 

"Oh shit-- oh fuck _\--_ Richie-- Richie, shut up-- shut up--" he shouts, his voice and breath shuddering desperately as pleasure mounts higher in his stomach, seizing his chest. "Oh fuck don't stop don't stop--"

He's close, again. He hasn't cum twice this quickly in-- jesus, has he _ever_ even gone two rounds with Myra? Their sex life was pretty much missionary or bust, with only the occasional foray into new positions once in a blue moon, when they were feeling spicy. But right now, Eddie is face down, ass up, being fingerfucked to the point of tears, he feels like a slut, he feels like a _whore_ \--

And he cums again. God help him, he sobs, he wails and he cums again. He curls inwards, the top of his head touching the cushion as he shouts down towards his shaking legs. His thighs tremble, his ankles cross and his toes curl, and he releases all over Richie's probably very expensive leather sofa, his spend landing in long white stripes against the cushion. 

Richie goes still as soon as Eddie comes apart at the seams, not daring to push too much, too fast, knowing there is still plenty of fun to be had. He would hate to wear Eddie out prematurely, although looking at the man it would be easy to see where he might have already done that. 

Raising back onto his knees, Richie's palm lands on the heavy-arched curve of Eddie's back, soothing over his skin, applying gentle pressure to urge him down, to encourage him to fall into the couch. It was now covered in his own spunk, but there was no way this was the end of their tryst, so there was little to no point in arguing the case-- and if Eddie were to keep this posture, he would almost definitely hurt himself.

"I'm not going to judge your sex life with whats-her-name," Richie says innocently, trailing kisses across Eddie's back until he relaxes, "But I gotta say, Eds, you're not really building my confidence that you've been fucked right lately." And with that, he fully shoves Eddie down onto the sofa, refusing to let him whine or bitch or moan about the cum that he'd put all over Richie's very nice couch.

It wasn't a fair statement, considering there was no way Eddie was mentally capable of understanding smartass comments. There was no way Eddie was coherent enough to understand anything aside from the residual pleasure sapping into his gut, the continuous fluttering of his hole around Richie's fingers still buried inside of him to the knuckle, or the warm graze of Richie's stubble and mouth across his shoulders and back. 

He waits in the silence only punctuated by Eddie's heavy, wheezing pants of air. He allows Eddie to breathe until they go deep again and fill his lungs entirely, not just his chest. And then he adds a third finger to split him open all over again, and ratchets it inside of him.

The noise Eddie makes is like a dying animal, broken and almost frail. He turns his face to grind it into the cushion, his hole sucking weakly at those fingers, and his muscles start to twitch errantly as if he's being shocked by a cattle prod every time Richie's fingers sink all the way inside him. The pleasure of it very nearly hurts as it starts to warm his belly for the third time, and his fingers creak as they dig into the edge of the cushion again. 

"Richie-- Richie-- Rich-- oh god-- Richie--" he's barely coherent, lying belly down without a complaint in a puddle of his own spend, his legs shaking and jerking every time Richie's thick fingers brush his prostate again. He feels so stretched open he's sure Richie could just stick his whole hand up there, he feels soft and achy and full in a familiar way that has tears filling his eyes all over again. 

He's squirming like a snake, his hips starting to buck back against Richie's fingers as the electricity sinks into his muscles and reignites his hunger for pleasure. No longer passively laying his face against the cushion, he leans up to brace himself on his elbows and rocks back into those fingers with a low moan. His stomach makes a sticky noise on the cushion as he rocks, something that might disgust him if he was capable of thinking in words instead of animal sensations. 

Eddie has gone soft and supple around Richie's fingers, his hole pliant and wet, opening eagerly and gracefully under the careful, insistent attention from the larger man hovering above him. His fingers are equally as thick and rough with callouses, and while the force that Richie presses them inside of him with doesn't change, Eddie certainly takes it better than before-- he's rolling, now with the thrusts, arching back and up as Richie pushes forward, a luxurious back and forth that has Richie's fingers plunging deeper and Eddie's moaning coming louder.

Those fingers scissor inside of him, opening him wide before shutting him again and twisting his fingers, wet noise the only one he hears in argument-- Eddie's moans certainly don't seem like he's protesting this treatment. Quite the opposite. He bellows like a bull when Richie plunges into him to the knuckle again and scissors him wide, so loud Richie can feel the vibrations in his cock.

"I got you, Eds, I got you," He promises softly, still leaning over Eddie's body, trapping hot air between them and shifting the temperature in the room from comfortable to muggy, the friction of their bodies igniting heat, the fire putting off a similar heat, their breath exhaling _heat_. In a gut-clenching moment of hunger, Richie drags his tongue up the length of Eddie's back, capturing a bead of sweat on his tongue and groaning at the salty, musky taste. 

So it's with sorrow that Richie leans away, but it's followed by the jangling of his fly, his zipper and button, as Richie pulls himself from his pants finally and moans at the contact of even his hand with his cock, hard and dripping and with a head that was a bright, deep red. He licks his lips and pulls his fingers out of Eddie's ass, giving it a spank that's loud enough it fills the room before slicking those still-wet fingers across his own length, "Gonna fuck you, Eds," He says, with what feels like his last brain cell, a heavy hand landing between Eddie's shoulders to keep him pinned flat to the couch. The other grabs his hip, and with one fluid motion-- and without a single word of warning-- Richie rolls his hips forward and plunges inside of Eddie to the hilt.

Eddie's mouth drops open without a sound at first, because as soon as he feels the head breach him he holds his breath without even meaning to-- and then the rest of the length rushes into him and punches all of that air back out of him in a loud, single gust of air. 

"FUCK--" he drops his face to the cushion, his voice breaking off in a weak whine that he can't sustain for more than a couple seconds before it too crackles off into silence. It feels like too much, too big, the sensation isn't painful thanks to Richie's patient and greedy fingers, but it feels like so _much_ that it overwhelms him completely. 

And then Richie pulls back, and the second drag of flesh on flesh has Eddie making another noise like he's been wounded, a sharp bark of ecstasy that's mostly muffled into the leather under him. He tries to rock back to meet him, but he's glued to the couch with sweat and cum and his own trembling, inert muscles. 

"Richie-- Richie-- RichieRichieRichie please _please **please**_ \--" he begs, angling his hips up, his toes trying to find purchase on the slick leather and failing. Richie still has his fucking shoes on, the goddamn cheat, he can get all the fucking leverage he wants, but all Eddie can do is cling to the couch and beg for a merciful and swift death-- or that's what it feels like, at least. Richie's hips snap forward again and he makes an inelegant sound, absolutely certain it's going to come out the top of his fucking head, he's so full. 

Richie's laugh fills the room in stark contrast to Eddie's pathetic begging, breathless and hoarse as he leans over Eddie's back, head hung low and shoulders hunched to his ears, "You're not saying anything, Eds," He says adoringly, letting his weight fall heavily across Eddie's back again, warm and heavy, for no other reason than to plant a line of kisses across the smaller man's shoulder.

And then he's up again, leaning back and rolling his hips, knocking Eddie flat onto the sofa again with little more than a long, languid roll of his hips and a harsh moan through his teeth. His hair hangs wet in front of his face, his entire body tense. He's still trying to take it a little slow, for Eddie's sake, seeing as he seems so close to completely collapsing beneath him at any moment.

But Eddie gets a foot in a particularly deep crease in Richie's couch, and with the slap of skin on skin manages to finally rock back to fill himself up, greedily taking as Richie had withdrawn, and the feeling of Eddie actively participating strikes a match in Richie's gut, burning so hot he can feel it all the way to his toes.

"Fuuuuuuuuck, Eddie--" Richie growls warningly, fingers tightening on his hips as his own stutter forward eagerly to meet him, turning one greedy roll into two hungry, powerful thrusts forward, "Don't-- fucking do that, or I'll fucking... I'm trying to take this fucking.... easy you piece of shit---" 

"Fuck you, fuck your _easy_ \--" Eddie pants, fogging up the slick surface of the leather until it goes wet with the condensation of his breath. He doesn't want it easy, he doesn't want this to be romantic or soft-- if it was, it would make him break apart with emotion in a way he's just not prepared for. He and Richie have yet to properly take the time together to mourn everything, they'd almost had a moment in the hospital months ago but it was confused and twisted up in so many other layers. Eddie knows that if Richie were to make slow, sweet love to him now, they wouldn't even be able to finish because Eddie would start crying too hard. 

That's bound to come later. He expects it. But he doesn't want it _now_. Now he twists like a snake, fitting an arm under him on the sofa and he throws a smoldering look back over his shoulder at the other man, his eyes blown black and his face flushed red, and his fingers creak in the leather as he says-- well, commands, really-- 

"I want you to fuck me to _death_." His voice is hoarse and desperate, and his hole clenches almost angrily around Richie's cock as he says it. If this is going to be their first fuck in 30 years, he wants it to be goddamn memorable. If he doesn't get hard in the shower in the morning just thinking about it, he doesn't want it. 

"Then shut the fuck up and let me work." Reaching down, Richie's able to cover Eddie's entire face with his hand rather easily. With a shove that could be described as mean if someone didn't know them, he pushes Eddie's face back into the couch, and then promptly stays there.

His hand weighing heavily across the back of Eddie's neck, Richie begins to fuck into the man with a fervor that spoke to the years they'd spent apart. He'd promised to fuck Eddie to death, but now he seems to actually be following through with it as Eddie's skin goes red under his hand, fingers gripping the sides of his throat just enough to close his airways and make him go flush. Their bodies meet, then part, then collide again, Richie's cock spearing Eddie open and fucking into him like he was trying to cleave him in two as Richie picks up a grueling rhythm that they'll both feel, thanks to being 40 and (arguably) out of shape.

But the ache is _good_. The _pain_ is good. Eddie's ass spreads open for him to take Richie to the hilt every time, each thrust punctuated by a drooling, pathetic moan from Eddie under him, muffled by the leather of the couch and Richie's hand still closing his throat. The couch begins to creak under them, wooden legs beginning to scrape back across the hardwood-- and Richie chases it, chases _him_ , burying himself to the hilt and fucking Eddie so hard he would definitely get to feel it, well into next week.

The amount of noise Eddie is making might seem surprisingly little for how hard Richie is giving it to him, but truthfully he's practically having an out of body experience-- and that combined with the hand tight around the back of his neck grinding his face into the cushion, it's no wonder that he's only giving anemic little whimpering sobs with every clap of skin against skin. Every time Richie's hips connect with his and drives that goddamn battering ram of a cock into him as deep as he can fit it, Eddie gives him a hoarse wail for his effort, but he can barely manage more than that. 

It feels too good. There's a stupid part of his brain that warns him that there's no way sex is ever going to feel this good again, that he's got to dial it back for the sake of his sanity because he'll be chasing this same high for the rest of his life never to be satisfied again if he lets Richie continue-- but he knows in his guts how fucking stupid that is. Richie had never once disappointed him. This is just the first fuck of so many to come that Eddie's certain it'll be just like when they were kids, and his thighs would ache with bruises every day of his life-- except this time it'll be year round, he won't get a break in winter anymore. The thought makes his gut clench up. 

"Rich-- Rich-- Rich-- Rich--" the chanting of his name comes out in almost a whisper, high up in his throat and wheezy with pleasure. He feels limp, boneless on the couch, just a goddamn vessel for Richie to fuck--

God. Richie's _fucking_ him. After so many years Richie's _fucking_ him. No, no, no, this was the emotion he was trying to avoid. He turns his face back into the sofa and a sob comes out of him in a bark like a dog, and just in case it concerns Richie he gives a desperate, almost frantic-- "Don't stop!"

Judging by the way Richie's hips didn't falter once, he had no plans to. Thirty years of waiting, thirty years of missing Eddie without _knowing_ he was missing Eddie has built into a horrible well in his gut, an emptiness Richie had just spent decades trying to fill with drinking and smoking and adulations and pretty boys in dirty alleys in the dead of night. None of them had filled that void, none of them had sated the hunger Richie felt now deep, deep in his gut-- no one but Eddie could ever make Richie satisfied the same way-- and now, after so long silently dealing with that hunger? There wasn't a chance in hell he was going to stop, no matter how fucking pathetic Eddie sounded, no matter how fucking breathless and desperate.

Richie knew what Eddie could take, and this was barely anything. That strong hand moves from Eddie's throat to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair and tightening at the follicle until, with one cruel twist, Richie pulls Eddie's head back and opens his face back up to the rest of the apartment, giving him fresh air to breathe, and new space to fill.

"Come on, Eds," Richie sounds mean as he sneers down at his partner, at his best friend, at his _boyfriend_ , _fuck_ \-- and those hips begin to plow into Eddie anew, the word even in his own head making his gut feel like fire and his throat begin to close with emotion. Not right now. Not right now. "Let me hear you, man--" It wasn't enough for Eddie to whisper Richie's name like a sinner praying for the first time. It wasn't enough for Eddie to plead with Richie quietly to keep fucking him.

He could hear a roaring in his ears, can feel his fingers sinking into the soft, supple flesh of Eddie's hip as he plunges forward again, and again, fucking like he aims to fuck his way through Eddie's lower belly and out the other side, but before he comes he's goddamn invested: Eddie Kaspbrak will scream his fucking name.

"SHIT!" Eddie shouts once he's yanked upright. He gets his elbows under him on the sofa so his body has the room to rock with Richie's thrusts, bouncing forward with the force of him. God help him but Richie is _strong_ , so much stronger than when they were kids. He feels like his bones are about to shatter apart, crack like glass under the brutal effort of his lover's driving cock. 

It's too much, it's _too much,_ Eddie can't take it anymore, he can't hold out. Honestly when it comes to Richie, there was never any point in trying to make it last. He had such a reputation at this point for milking Eddie until he had nothing left to give, and he wasn't disappointing this time, either. The muscles in his thighs tremble as they try their god damnedest to keep holding him up under the brutal strength of the larger man, and they very nearly give out when yet again, Eddie is pushed to the brink of another orgasm. What is this, number three?

"Rich-- Rich-- oh FUCK Richie-- Richie!" Eddie's voice finally escalates into a proper, belly-deep wail as the floodgates finally overflow, and he adds another layer of fresh seed to the leather, painting it in a few meager strings. His balls clench as they try their best to give him everything he's got, but he's already cum so many times that only a scant few drops spatter the cushion. 

That doesn't mean his orgasm isn't _intense,_ though, because Eddie can say hands down without a doubt that it's the most gut-wrenching pleasure of his life. He sobs like he's dying, gusts of breath leaving him every time Richie's cock hammers past his prostate and prolongs his bliss just a second longer, until the friction very nearly starts to _hurt_ with oversensitivity. 

Like he was nothing, Richie releases Eddie's hair, and doesn't even seem to care when he falls flat against the couch, prone and spent and struggling to breathe. Richie doesn't seem to care when Eddie offers no argument, barely even a spoken word with that scream-torn voice, as both hands grab Eddie's ass and lift it high, so that Richie's thrusts can bury into him and reach deeper than before. He doesn't seem to care when all he gets is a pathetically exhausted whimper for his efforts.

He's driven by hunger, driven by the pleasure making his chest full and the space between his ears fuzzy. His hips pick up in fervor as Richie actually raises one foot flat onto the sofa, Eddie's face half-buried in the cushions and unable to even breathe if he wasn't careful. Moving his hands from his hips to Eddie's ribs, Richie grabs onto him and buries himself deep, cock striking home again, and again, hungry for that warmth around him, desperately following his own bliss. 

With a final, angry snarl, Richie buries himself to the hilt and releases inside of Eddie in heavy, unending pulses. There's enough that Richie can feel himself filling Eddie to the brim, he can feel his seed leaking from his hole. Richie doesn't move, he doesn't dare. He goes completely still over Eddie's body and says absolutely fucking nothing except for the animalistic snarl in his chest, spilling into the smaller man and panting like a bull above him, fingers tight and bruising up Eddie's ribs, Richie's eyes slipping closed as he lets himself feel every minute of this hard-won bliss. 

It was perfect. This was _perfect_. Richie could die now and remember the feel of Eddie's ass around his cock and his voice saying his name in perfect detail, and that was just fucking perfect for him.

Eddie feels Richie lay back down on top of him at some point, and starts taking inventory of his own body-- something he's made a habit of, these past few months. As of late he's had less and less things to take stock of, as he healed up better and better and grew stronger with every week that passed, but now he finds himself with all new aches and pains, and these ones sink into his bones with a sense of satisfaction. 

His ass aches, his hole pulsing weakly with his heartbeat in tired little clenches around Richie's cock as it slowly goes soft inside him. His hips hurt where Richie had gripped them so tightly that he felt it in his bones. His thighs are stinging and burning from the combination of Richie's beard and all the fresh hickies he'd left behind on his skin, which he knows is only the first round of many to come. His scalp stings where Richie had so callously yanked his hair, the back of his neck burns with the weight that had been braced there, even his fucking _ribs_ hurt just from breathing so hard. 

Every part of him hurts, but it's a _good_ hurt. Like when he first started working out and his whole body hurt, he knew it was a productive pain-- and there's nothing more productive than this. Finally getting to be with Richie again, finally getting to _be with him_ completely, with no need to hide, nothing left to run from. 

The emotion finally hits hardest of all, and he turns his face into the cushion to sob softly, the sound interspersed with quiet, frantic laughter. It's too much emotion for one man to withstand. There's no word for the depth of the joy running through his body, nothing feels profound enough. He's finally with his fucking soulmate. 

"You sound fucking crazy when you do that," Richie says from somewhere above him without malice. There's amusement in his exhausted voice, warmth dispersed amongst the slightly-mean humor. With a reluctant shift of his hips, Richie pulls his cock from Eddie's poor, battered hole, exhaling heavily at the sudden shift from tight warmth to open air. It was a loss he would no doubt mourn later, and no doubt seek to remedy again just as quickly.

Gentle hands move up Eddie's body, apparently mimicking the check he'd just done on himself internally. They massage up Eddie's calves and thighs, slowly working his taut muscles slack, easing Eddie over onto his side, peeling him out of the puddle of mess he'd made on Richie's couch. Their path continues up his side, fingers touching each rib like Richie was counting them, as if he could have fucked one out of place. Slowly and methodically, Richie checks every last inch of Eddie's body, turning him this way and that, squeezing and rubbing and pressing warmth and life and feeling into muscles and bones that had been tensed and tight for far too long, now. He doesn't otherwise shame Eddie for crying as the man slowly puts himself together, doesn't draw attention to the emotion that was swelling in the room, at least not until Richie manages to sit Eddie upright, so he can press kisses across his temple and cheek, tasting sweat and tears and urging ahead, anyway.

This entire time, Richie had been speaking, but it's only once Eddie is turned away from the couch cushion that he can understand the quiet rumbling of the man above him as anything other than pleasant white noise. It's words of adoration, whispered like a mantra, mumbled into each and every inch of Eddie that Richie can kiss: "It's okay," Richie mumbles into a kiss just below Eddie's ear, "I have you, you're good, relax. Just relax. I'm gonna clean you up. Fuck, you're so fucking beautiful, Jesus-- I got you--" 

Those hands continue their gentle care of Eddie, until he finally finds himself fully picked up, skin making a horrible, sticky tearing sound as it separates from the disgusting leather couch. He urges one of Eddie's arms around his neck for support, then carries him to the bathroom, flicking a couple switches as he manages to hold Eddie a bit awkwardly with one arm, before he sits down with him on the toilet, still cradling him like he was a newborn and not a fully-grown human man. 

"Bath, then nap," Richie says, leaning back against the cool porcelain and reveling in the way it feels against his own flushed, overheated skin. He seems to be talking to himself as much as Eddie, but he does look down at the man with one eye for confirmation, "You like Thai?" He asks, "I know a great Thai place near here. They don't normally deliver, but they're friends of mine, so we could get that..."

Lounged back on the toilet like it's a throne and he a king, rather than just an absolutely fucked-out and warm shell of a man, Eddie gazes back over his shoulder at Richie like he's barely even absorbing what he's saying at all-- because he is. Richie's words are lost almost entirely in the static buzzing in his brain, the sound of his voice a comforting drone until the meaning of the noise finally gets through the fog. 

"Dude, I'd go back out there and eat the fucking couch," he croaks, his voice all gummy in his chest, trapped down low and sticking in his throat, crackling on every other word. "You could feed me fucking... broken glass. I don't care, I'm just... fucking starving."

"Well after all the work you put into it, it's probably got enough goddamn sauce on it to choke it down," Richie says, grinning like a cat as he curls around Eddie affectionately, squeezing him around the waist. He leans over then to finally flick on the water, an afterthought-- baths usually needed water to be effective. Just sitting in the bathroom wasn't the same as actually getting clean. Steam begins to fill the room as water fills the tub, and Richie takes the time to just... bask in it. All of it.

This was their life now. This was _it._ They'd gone through hell and come out the other side and now they get their happily fucking ever after.

"Once the tub fills up, you soak, I'll call and get 'em to bring us some. I'd say we could eat whatever I got in the house, but..." a cursory look was given to the kitchen situated just on the other side of the wall, so close but so far, " _Someone_ surprised me by coming before I could get ready, so my fridge is fucking empty, man."

"No, don't leave," Eddie says, his voice suddenly serious and almost scared. Maybe at some point he'll be able to watch Richie walk out of the room without feeling that panic in his chest that it'll be the last time he sees him, like when he left the kitchen when they were kids. Jesus, he probably needs therapy for that, there's a lot still to unpack there. "Just-- I mean, bring the phone in here? Take a bath with me. I don't want to be alone." 

Specifically he doesn't want to be without Richie, right now. The thought of splitting off from him even long enough for him to make a phone call puts ice in his chest. 

Richie looks at Eddie with a furrowed brow, "What? Dude, I'm not leaving you alone," he says, immediately leaning in to kiss his forehead, "I'm just grabbing my phone from there," he gestures through the open bathroom door to the bedroom just beyond it, "And I'm _crazy_ gonna take a bath with you, dumbass. I just can't carry you to get it." Mostly because he'd sat down, and while he was strong enough to carry Eddie a few feet, he wasn't strong enough to go from fully prone to standing, then walking with Eddie's weight. 

He gives Eddie an adoring smile, though, finally reaching over to turn the tub off, water just full enough to allow for Eddie's body without splashing. And that's what he does next, gently urging Eddie and helping him into the tub, the water probably hotter than he might immediately like, but fragrant and comforting for aching muscles and bruised bones. Richie bends to kiss Eddie on the forehead again, taking a slow breath, "Be right back," he promises, and goes to get his phone, bare ass visible for Eddie to watch as he leans over his bed, then trots back, only realizing then that he... still had his shoes on. 

"Okay," Richie says, back in the bathroom and sitting on the toilet, tugging at his shoes and throwing them into his bedroom with his socks, then looking at his phone, "You still a chicken satay guy, or have you evolved beyond chicken on a stick?"

Curled up on his side in the bath like he's lying in bed, Eddie pillows his chin on his forearm on the side of the tub and just gazes across at Richie with a dreamy smile on his face, barely even listening to what he's saying. It's surreal to be here, there's a scared and immature part of him that thinks something's going to stop them, someone's going to object, surely they can't just _be like this_ for the rest of their lives... nobody is allowed to just be this happy. 

But this is it. The first step of the rest of their lives. Eddie has nowhere else to go, no other loose ends to tie up. He'd gone through the ringer and successfully beaten back oblivion, and now they're here. Just sitting in a bathroom together, talking about getting dinner like normal people do, after having amazing sex like normal people do. Eddie barely even feels the scar on his chest anymore when he finally opens his mouth to croak out a tired, 

"I trust you."

It means so much more than just take out when he says it, and Richie knows that just from the way Eddie is looking at him. They still have a long road ahead of them when it comes to sorting through the raw emotions they have left over from the decades they spent apart and how they initially parted ways, but Eddie is confident in their ability to work through it. They're grown men now, after all. 

Grown men who live together, who _are_ together. They might have lost a lot of time, but he knows there's a lot of time still to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned for more reddie in the future! venn and i have plans for another big long fic that will act as a sequel to this one after we finish the frick (five/rick) story! 👀


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